The Improbable Truth
by bethybonbons
Summary: "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock Holmes was not dead, it was impossible, Sherlock Holmes couldn't just die. The truth, the only possible option, was that he was still alive.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Hello Everyone! Okay so this is my first fanfic so please review. Seeing as the description is slightly cryptic (sorry) this is about John figuring out what happened in 'The Reichenback Fall' so spoilers for that episode. DFTBA! **

The Improbable Truth- Chapter one.

"Happy birthday Sherlock," John sighed mournfully as he stared down at the black marble headstone. The cold January wind bit through John's thin coat as he dropped the pathetic looking bunch of daisies in front of the stone, leaning heavily on his cane as he did. John would have like to buy a better bunch but the rent was high despite Mrs Hudson lowering it for him and the job at the clinic didn't pay too well, also he doubted Sherlock would have minded. Harry had suggested that he move in with her but John couldn't leave Baker Street, not yet; if he did he would have finally given up on the idea that Sherlock would come waltzing through that door clutching a harpoon, covered in blood complaining about the tediousness of the tube. (Or harpooning the pig, John had never been sure.) That image of his best friend just made him think of the fall and those large, lifeless, grey eyes staring into nothing as the world dissolved into chaos around him.

Something still didn't sit right with Sherlock's suicide, there were too many lose ends. Why did Sherlock tell John he was a fake even though it was blindingly obvious he wasn't? Why had John been ordered to stay in that one place? Why had those people stopped him even though he had told them he was a doctor? And then there was Mycroft's indifference to Sherlock's death, for someone who worried about his brother _constantly _he seemed pretty quick to betray and forget him, hell he didn't even attended the funeral!

John banished the thoughts with a frown; he had to forget this, he had to move on. Sherlock was _dead_, dead as a door nail... Dead, dead, dead.

"Good day Dr. Watson," a high, posh voice came from behind him, shoving him out of his thoughts. John turned in shock and looked at the woman behind him and swore he was looking at a ghost; she was tall and thin, looking to be somewhere in her sixties, with brunet hair that had been tied in a bun, piercing grey eyes and pronounced cheek bones. In her arms she held a large bouquet of white lilies that would put John's flowers to shame when she put them next to his. It was obvious who this woman was, no one could look so much like a person and not be related to them. And those eyes...

"Mrs Holmes," John greeted, sounding utterly shocked, he stuck a hand out for her to shake which she did with a firm grip and soft skin.

"Well deduced," Mrs Holmes smiled weakly as she drew her hand back and used it to brush down her black skirt "Please call me Martha,"

"Hardly a deduction Martha, Sherlock is the spit of you," John replied smoothly, falling easily into conversation with her. "How are you this morning?"

"Quite well thank you," She replied smoothly. Martha stepped towards the headstone and placed the lilies next to the daisies, arranging them so that they looked better than how John had done it. "I take it the job at the clinic isn't paying too well,"

John chuckled, "I see the Holmes gift isn't limited to the men in the family,"

Martha laughed, it was a high, sharp sound and John couldn't decide if it was nice or not then said bitterly, "Who do you think taught the boys how to deduce? It was most certainly not their father,"

John was wise enough not to ask, "So why are you here Martha?"

Martha Holmes raised an eye brow as she moved away from the grave side and came to stand next to the doctor who was standing a few feet away, "What am I doing at my sons grave on his birthday?"

"Sorry, I meant why now? You didn't come to his funeral or his burial, and I've been come here most weeks and I've never seen you here before,"

"Before I met Sherlock's father I had agoraphobia," Martha told him with a blank expression, "When I heard the news it made a comeback, I couldn't leave the house, terrified that Moriarty would come after me. However Mycroft visited me the other day, and utterly assured me that there was no danger,"

"Awfully good of him," John spoke bitterly, kicking the ground.

Martha looked at him suspiciously, "Shall we take a walk?" John nodded and followed Martha as she made her way towards the main path. "You have a problem with my eldest son, I can guess I know why but I must ask you to put it behind you,"

John shook his head, "He might be responsible for the death of my best friend, I can't just 'put it behind me',"

Martha sighed and stopped walking; she regarded him with a critical eye for a moment. "Listen, John, can I ask you to do something for me? Can you just listen to what I am about to tell you and not make any comments until I've finished?"

"Okay..." he replied with a wary smile.

"I don't believe for one moment that my son is actually dead," she told him, John sighed and shook his head, "John, I know my son better than he thinks I do, and I know he hasn't died, he loves himself far too much for that. Please, Mycroft treated me the same way as you are, but if you ask him to get the CCTV footage for you I know he will. He would do anything to make peace with you John, even if he doesn't act like it,"

"Why though?" John asked, "It's not as if I'm important."

Martha sighed, "Because you made Sherlock better, you protected him as best you could, hell, you even killed a man for him. Mycroft won't forget that,"

John scratched his head and winced, she was in denial, and encouraging it would only make it worse, but she was right; Sherlock _had_ loved himself too much to perform suicide. "Fine, I'll talk to Mycroft."

Martha stared at him with those too familiar eyes that were suddenly full of barley suppressed hope, suddenly frantic she scrambled in her bag and pulled out a notepad and a pen. "This is Mycroft's personal mobile number, very few people know it so I trust you will keep it safe," Martha told him as she wrote his number in her elegant script and handed it to him.

"Mrs Holmes..." John started as he folded the paper and put it in his wallet, he tried to chose the words as carefully as possible, not meaning to offend her, "Should we not just let this go, it's highly likely that Sherlock is dead,"

"I'm not asking for much John," she sighed, !I'm not even asking for you to believe that Sherlock isn't actually dead, I'm just asking you to get the CCTV footage," Martha shook her head, "Look, I just can't believe Sherlock would willingly kill himself, I need to see that footage, maybe then I can get some closure,"

John nodded and took the piece of paper from Martha's hands. He took out his phone and added Mycroft as a contact, "I'll get them for you, hell, I think I need to get some closure too,"

"Thank you John," Martha smiled gently, "Tell me, did my son teach you anything about deduction?"

"He tried, but Sherlock has a tendency to teach big," John replied with an uneasy smile.

Martha laughed, "Yes, Sherlock always was like that. He picked it up so much quicker than his brother, however Mycroft is much more through in his observations; there used to be a lot of competition about it when they were younger,"

John nodded, "I better get home. How can I contact you when I get the footage?"

"Ask Mycroft for my number, I don't have the wretched thing on me and I'm not the sort of person to memorise my number," She told him with a small smile, "Be safe John,"

"I'll try Mrs Holmes," John replied, as he walked towards the road, leaving Martha standing still in the middle of the path. "I'll call you when I have the footage,"

John caught a cab back to 221b, his thoughts a tangle. He knew Martha Holmes was just a mother in mourning, but there was some truth to what she believed. He himself thought that there were too many things that didn't quite add up and she was right; Sherlock really wasn't the suicide type. John knew that getting too tangled up in this could harm his own chances of moving on, but he couldn't just let this pass him by without knowing weather Sherlock was dead or not; maybe the CCTV footage would show nothing and he would be able to finally move on. Or maybe it would show Sherlock with a twin that supposedly died at birth, he didn't know, but what he did know was that he was feeling the same things Martha was; six months on he still couldn't imagine a work without Sherlock Holmes.

By the time he got home John's emotions and thoughts were even more messy and he was so confused, his shoulders felt heavier than ever before and all he really wanted to do was collapse into his chair and watch some bad TV program. John stepped in to the flat and winced as he stared into the empty living room, all this time and John still hadn't gotten used to the emptiness that had settled without Sherlock. No more strange smells, no more random burn marks, no more moping consulting detective and no more mournful violin at three o'clock in the morning; he still expected to see Sherlock draped across the sofa, moping about the lack of a case. John dropped his cane onto the sofa and moved into the kitchen, he grabbed a cup from the cupboard, wincing slightly as he spotted the half eaten pot of honey, and began making tea. He returned to the living room and sat within the unchanged chaos that Sherlock had left behind; staring vacantly at the violin on top of his chair and wishing fiercely that it was the owner sat there, instead of the instrument. After a while John sighed and decided to stop moping, he turned on the TV, watching the first thing he found.

John was just thinking about asking Mrs Hudson if she wanted to eat with him tonight when a sharp tapping on the door pulled John out of his chair, he limped over to the door and opened it to find Greg Lestrade; he stood in his usual suit jacket, looking sheepish and holding a bottle of white wine in his left hand.

"Please don't slam the door in my face John," he pleaded while rubbing his neck, "I can't let you be alone today,"

"I have no idea why you think that," John replied with a snort, "You've let me be alone the last six months,"

Lestrade winced, "I'm sorry John, I shouldn't have abandoned you like I did, I know that. So when I realised it was Sherlock's birthday, I thought there was never a better chance for us all to meet back up again, so I asked Molly to come over and I'm sure Mrs Hudson will join in, I think we should celebrate his birthday together."

John opened the door wide enough to let the DI in and walked back to his seat; Lestrade put the wine in the fridge and sat down in Sherlock's chair. The two men watch each other for a while, each of them searching for a conversation topic that was suitable for the mood. John ran a critical eye over Lestrade, he looked thinner and much more stressed than before, the wedding ring was totally gone from his figure now and his clothes were creased.

"You broke up with your wife," John stated simply.

Lestrade winced, "She was cheating on me, just like Sherlock told me, the divorce was finalised in November."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," John told him honestly.

"Thanks John," Lestrade replied.

The door knocked again and John moved to go and answer it, "It'll only be Molly," Lestrade told him before he stood, "Save your leg, I'll get it."

Molly held more wine in her arms, Lestrade said something about getting drunk as he hugged her and pressed a kiss to her cheek, he took the bottle and walked back into the kitchen. "Where's your glasses John?" he asked.

"Left hand cupboard closest to the fridge," John called then thought for a moment, "Careful though, there may still be god knows what in that one,"

"Hello John," Molly smiled as she took the chair from the desk and sat down gingerly.

"Hey Molly, how've you been?" John asked politely, he liked Molly; there was a bizarre innocence and calm surrounding her.

"Oh you know, good days and bad days," she shrugged, "It's weird knowing he's not going to be running into the lab asking for a cadaver to test on,"  
>"I know what you mean," John replied, "How's work?"<p>

"Oh you know, dead boring," Molly replied, bit her lip, then hastily added, "The pun was intended, I wasn't just being insensitive,"  
>"I guessed,"<p>

Lestrade came in at that point, carefully balancing four wine glasses on a tray. "I'll just go get Mrs Hudson," he told them as he passed the glasses round to Molly and John, he put the last two glasses on the desk and left the flat.

"Where are you working then John?" Molly asked as she brushed a stray strand of her hair to the side, holding the glass of white wine on her leg.

"Just the local clinic," John told her with a shrug, "It's a bit boring and doesn't pay well, but at least it's a job, god knows it tough getting work out there at the moment,"

"Compared with running round London catching criminals I suppose anything would seem boring now," Molly said with small laugh, John grinned and nodded; finally relaxing back into the routine of being with friends.

"Yeah it does," John agreed, lifting his glass to take sip, the wine was cool and sweet, Lestrade had obviously bought an expensive brand.

"Don't drink too much, I think Greg wants to do toasts," Molly told him.

"What, is he trying to push the whole moving on thing?" John asked with a roll of his eyes.

Molly shifted in her seat, "Yeah I think so,"

John sighed and debated telling Molly about meeting Mrs Holmes, "I met Sherlock's mother today,"

Molly seemed to freeze, her doe brown eyes flicking to Johns face. "Really, what did she say?"

"She thinks Sherlock isn't dead," John told the mortician. He watched her bite the inside of her mouth before she finally answered.

"What do you think?" her voice shaking slightly.

"I can't imagine a world without Sherlock," he confessed, "I honestly can't, but I saw him fall, no one can come back from that, can they?"

Molly opened her mouth to say something when Mrs Hudson and Lestrade walked in, talking animatedly about how he managed to keep his job at Scotland Yard, unsurprisingly it had a lot to do with Mycroft. Mrs Hudson took Sherlock's seat, sitting on the edge gingerly, Lestrade handed her a glass of wine and cleared his throat.

"So," Greg began, "I thought we could use tonight as a way to move on, lord knows we should have already! Anyone want to say anything?"

Molly stood up, licking her lips as she smoothed down her skirt and cleared her throat.

"To Sherlock, because if he was here he would be utterly touched and hate us for it," she said and sat down as Lestrade and John laughed at the idea.  
>"Cheers!" they chorused.<p>

While Lestrade said his piece about putting knock backs behind them and focusing on new hopes and goals for the future John wondered what he was going to say, after all he would have to say something, otherwise they would all start worrying that he was resenting the idea of moving on. To be honest he was, god know he wanted to move on, but something was holding him back; that was why he was going to talk to Mycroft tomorrow, he needed closure. Mrs Hudson spoke about how Sherlock had been like the son she had always wanted, not the carbon copy of his father she actually had and how she finally ready to just stop fighting and accept that he was dead. Then it was Johns turn.

"I'm not going to lie, I'm not ready yet," John admitted, Molly was watching him carefully with a masked expression that looked so close to cracking, "There's something holding me back, but I promise you all tonight that I'm going to find out what that is,"

"Cheers," Lestrade said, his expression unreadable, and they finally began to drink their drinks.

The rest of the evening passes quickly; jokes were passed, stories were told and support given by people who actually meant it. However John couldn't help feeling like an outsider, as if a glass wall was between him and his friends, he tried to not let it stop him from being social but sometimes he often felt like he was being more silent than anything. It was ten o'clock before the conversation began to slow and yawns began to pass, Mrs Hudson was the first one to leave, apologising profusely but assuring them all she couldn't possibly keep her eyes open for five more minutes.

Lestrade and Molly left together because he had offered to drive her home. The two of them had begun to grow close and John wondered if they might get together some time, god knows, Molly needed a boyfriend who wasn't a psychopath.

John lay awake in bed a while that night, his thoughts straying for ideas as to how Sherlock might have survived to the lack of tea in the cupboard. Surprisingly, he slept better than he had for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay so here's chapter two! Please don't forget to review. **

Work at the clinic the next day was dull, John mussed as he wrote out a prescription for some antibiotics for an elderly gentleman, the gentleman had cut himself and managed to get the cut infected (which, judging by his hygiene levels, wouldn't have been hard) and the cut was looking nasty.

"There you go," John told him with a fake smile plastered on his face, "Just take it up to Katie at the till and-"

"I know how it works," the patient snapped angrily in a gravelly voice as he snatched the prescription from Johns hand and stormed out of the small room.

"Okay then," John said to himself, making some notes on his clip board.

John opened the door and looked into the waiting room, ten or so people all sat, faces down cast and at varying levels of un-wellness. John called the next name on his clip board; he groaned inwardly when he saw it was a crying child clutching at an obviously painful ear, his mother followed him looking distraught.

After a long half hour of trying to persuade the distressed mother that he son didn't have some highly improbable ear cancer, just an ear infection, John had lunch. For a long moment John welcomed the silence of his office then he removed his phone from his coat pocket. He stared at Mycroft's contact with a small feeling of dread; Mycroft had always made him more uneasy that Sherlock could have ever hoped to, the fact that he was at ease around people made him much more dangerous. John didn't doubt that because of his uncanny way to manipulate people and his contacts Mycroft would be able to get away with anything.

Which made him think.

If, and only _if_, Sherlock _had_ faked his own death it would have made sense for him to involve Mycroft, after all he was his brother and the British government. John shook his head in frustration and reminded him that it didn't matter, he was getting closure for Martha and himself: Sherlock was _dead._ Keeping this in mind John sent Mycroft a text (should he be texting Mycroft? He knew Sherlock had preferred it, but was Mycroft different?)

_We need to talk, Mummy send's her love. – JW_

The reply was almost immediate.

_Anthea will be there in ten minutes, a cover doctor will be with her. – MH _

John smirked and finished eating his lunch, when he was done he took off his tag, closed down his computer and walked into the ever depressing waiting room as he shrugged on his coat. A rather large middle aged man stood in front of Shara, they were arguing quietly with narrowed eyes and biting words, he walked over quickly with his best oblivious smile.

"Is my car outside?" John asked the man. Shara looked shocked and opened her mouth to say something but the large man spoke over whatever she was going to say.

"Yes, that hot bird with the Black Berry is waiting for you," he told John while the army doctor winced at his choice of words.

"Alright," John said, "I'll see you tomorrow Shara,"

"Hold on, are you skipping work so you can go on a date?" Shara demanded with a shocked expression.

"No, she's the assistant of the man I was going to see," John replied, laughing at the idea of Anthea ever going on a date with him.

"You won't get paid for this John," Shara pointed out, "And you're struggling enough with the rent as it is,"

"Actually, he probably will get paid," the cover said, "Just not by your bosses,"

Shara sighed and shook her head, "Don't make a habit of this okay, you need work to distract yourself from _him_, it'll help you move on,"

"And when have you bothered yourself with what I need?" John asked in a cold tone with a raised eyebrow.

Shara sighed, "Since I became you friend,"

_I don't have friends, just one._

"Right well, see you tomorrow," John spoke as he turned and began to walk towards the brown automatic doors of the clinic. The wind was bitterly cold against Johns face as he stepped out of the warm foyer and into the car park, a fancy, black car pulled up in front of him and he stepped towards it and opened the door.

"Hello Dr..." Anthea greeted in a bored tone as he slid into the leather seats. She had her Black Berry in her hands, an expensive looking diamond ring glittering on the ring finger of her left hand.

"John," he replied curtly, putting his seat belt on, " My name's John,"

Anthea stopped tapping into her Black Berry and looked at him with an amused expression, "Ah, of course,"

They stared moving and John stared out of the tinted windows, content to let the rest of the journey pass in silence while he watched the world pass by. The driver was taking them to the more industrial part of London, winding through the streets unnoticed, as normal. For the first time, however, Anthea decided to speak.

"Mycroft doesn't like being contacted you know," she said without looking up from her phone.

"I gathered that from his penchant for kidnapping people," John replied dryly.

"It's not kidnapping really," Anthea told him with a smirk, "You have a choice... Just making the wrong one is heavily discouraged,"

John laughed, but it didn't sound right, too forced, Althea's eyes flicked to him and he thought he might have noticed a small hint of pity. "I thought it would be,"

Another few minutes silence, this time the woman broke it by tucking he Black Berry into the breast pocket of her tailored coat. "You aren't the same are you?" she said bluntly, regarding him with a look of carefully controlled apathy.

"Did you expect me to be?" John replied quietly, he was shocked, he never expected the woman to ever deem him worthy to have a full conversation with him, and yet here they were.

Anthea shook her head, "He isn't the same, Mycroft I mean, it hit him harder than he'll admit,"

John snorted, "It's his own fault for giving Moriarty the information he needed."

Anthea glared at him "You realise the fact that he played such a big a role in Sherlock's fall just makes the guilt harder to bare, right?"

"He should have thought of that before he got his brother killed," John replied stubbornly, crossing his arms and clearing his throat.

"For god's sake John," Anthea spat, anger clear in the way she curled her free hand against her leg, "Don't be so childish! Do you honestly think Mycroft would have done that to Sherlock if he knew what that psycho would do?"

John breathed heavily through his nose, "No, even Mycroft couldn't be that uncaring, though I wouldn't put it past him,"

Anthea bristled, "Caring is not an advantage, John Watson." She turned back to her phone, the sound of her fingers on the keys much louder now as she pummelled the keys in anger.

The car rolled to a stop ten minutes later and John got out, He had been brought to a industrial estate on the other side of London and the drizzle fell lightly on the concrete, changing it from a light cream colour to a dark brown. Anthea got out of the car and opened her umbrella, without offering it to John she began to walk towards a green warehouse with the number twelve painted on it in yellow, a dull yellow, not smuggler yellow. When she got to the entrance she opened the heavy wooden door with ease and stepped inside, holding it open for the doctor. The warehouse was the same temperature outside with a damp timber type smell, light filtered through algae covered fibre glass in the roof weakly, shedding just enough light to see by, the rest was supplied by lights hanging from the ceiling. The floor was marked with darker and lighter areas where shelves had once stood but had been taken away, presumably for when Mycroft wanted to kidnap someone. Mycroft Holmes sat at a table with three chairs and steaming cups of tea in the centre of the warehouse, Anthea walked quickly to the table shaking her brolly of water as she went, she sat down in the seat beside Mycroft and murmured something in his ear before taking her Black Berry out again. John walked forwards and took a seat across from them, Mycroft slip of cup of tea towards him and John stirred it, as he did so Mycroft began to talk.

"I would like to remind you, doctor, that I am a busy man and I am not at your beck and call," Mycroft began coldly, fixing him with a hostile gaze.

"I suppose you are, tell me, are there many more family members to betray?" John asked sarcastically, Anthea glared at him again and cleared her throat, trying to remind him of the conversation in the car.

"I suppose you think I deserved that," Mycroft said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow

"I know you did," John replied staring down at his tea, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Is this what you asked me here to do?" Mycroft began, "To gloat about the fact that I was responsible for the death of my own little brother?" He was gripping the handle of tea cup so tightly his knuckles turned white but his face betrayed no emotion, Anthea reached over and gently took the tea cup from his hands, smiling at him gently.

"No. I came here to ask for your help," John replied, realising how stupid he sounded as he spoke.

Mycroft laughed, a patronizing and hateful sound that made John feel like a child, "Then you need to learn some tact dear doctor, for insulting someone then asking for their help normally involves you being told to 'piss off'."

John sighed, realising his mistake, he had come here to apologise to the man after all, but the moment he saw him all of the resentment he had felt towards the man had risen up again and made it impossible to hold his tongue. "I'm sorry Mycroft, I shouldn't have insulted you like that,"

"No, you shouldn't have," Anthea answered for her boss, fixing her brown gaze upon him.

"You said 'Mummy sends her love'," Mycroft said tuning his gaze back to the doctor, "When did you meet with Mother?"

"At Sherlock's grave yesterday," John told him, "She believes that the fall might have been faked,"

"And she asked you to find out and gave you my number so you could get the CCTV footage," Mycroft replied, filling in the blanks, the man shook his head, "Give up John,"

"What?"

"Give up before he disappoints you,"

"Have you even checked the CCTV footage?" John asked angrily, a tinge of pain shot through his leg and with a wince he began rubbing it.

"No. I've had no reason to, I've actually tried moving on," Mycroft sniped, watching the doctor rub his leg, he frowned, "Is the pain back?"

John nodded curtly, "Please Mycroft, get me that CCTV footage, if not for me then for your mother, we need the closure,"

"Mycroft, do it," Anthea interjected, shocking the two men "What harm can it do, if there's nothing suspicious about his death then John can move on and if, _if_, there is something then Sherlock may need your help,"

Mycroft watched her for a long time then glanced at John, a dangerous light shining in his eyes, "Fine, I'll get you the footage, so long as if there is nothing there you will forget this ridiculous notion, move on and leave Sherlock to rest in peace,"

"Are you not even tempted by the idea that your brother might not be-" John began but Mycroft cut him off.

"Leave John." Mycroft commanded, "We'll talk more another time, but I actually have business to attend to," John nodded and got up, he wasn't going to push his luck, "Oh before I forget, here,"

Mycroft reached into his breast pocket and handed him a stiff envelope, with a suspicious glance at the British government John slid his thumb under the flap and tore the glue. Inside there was a wad of £20 notes, John inhaled sharply and glanced up at Mycroft and Anthea, "Take it, John,"

"Thank you Mycroft," John replied honestly. Mycroft nodded, picked up his ever present umbrella and walked out of the warehouse, the opposite direction to how Anthea and John had come in.

Anthea glanced at John and then began walking quickly out of the warehouse, her heeled shoes echoing in the empty warehouse, John followed as quickly as his limp would allow him, damming his leg the entire time. They exited the warehouse and entered the car in awkward silence, when the car began moving Anthea just stared out the widow looking pensive, it wasn't until they were fifteen minutes to Baker Street that she finally said something.

"I hope you realise that you are now obliged to find him," she spoke softly, not meeting John's curious gaze, instead looking out at her shiny, manicured nails, " Mycroft will see that CCTV footage and realise that there is a lot more than just a slither of hope that his brother is still alive,"

The deduction wasn't that hard, given the knowing way she spoke, "You've see it haven't you?"  
>She nodded, still looking down at her hands, "Yes,"<p>

"What happened?" he asked desperately, his eyes pleading, he needed to know.

Anthea smirked as she looked at him, her eyes tinkling mischievously. "We'll drop the tapes and stills off tonight, I don't want to ruin the surprise."  
>"Anthea..."<p>

"John..." she looked at him pointedly, a playfully smile faintly tugging at her lips. He wanted to say something, but he knew it would be pointless; the woman seemed as stubborn as a Holmes. Instead he just stared out the window, counting down the minuets until he would be back at the relative sanity of his home, far away for the confusion of maybe-not-dead flatmates and government-MI6-godknows- brothers with umbrellas.

"Bye," Anthea said in that melodic tone she did so well as John got out the car.

"See you tonight,"

When he entered 221 Mrs Hudson called from her open doorway. From behind her, in the shadows of her flat, John could see Shara sipping tea from a flowery mug, looking determined.

"John, I've got a friend of yours in here," Mrs Hudson told him.

"Hello Shara," John greeted with a false smile, Shara returned it honestly and thanked Mrs Hudson for her tea and gave her the empty mug.

"Do you mind if I come up? I need to talk to you," she asked as she walked out of Mrs Hudson's flat; the land lady gave John a suspicious look from behind Shara then pulled the door closed.

"Uh, sure, It's a bit of a mess, I had Molly and Lestrade over last night," John told her, name dropping in case this was about his seeming lack of social life. Since the fall Shara seemed to take it upon herself to treat John as if he was a child, encouraging him to 'Get out and enjoy life!', like she was trying to force John to move on.

"Oh it's fine, you should see my house at the moment," Shara laughed as she walked up the stairs as if she owned the place, "Come on then,"

Trying to hide his frustration at Shara John followed her up the stairs and unlocked the door; he stepped into the flat and walked into the living room. Shara stared around at the flat, her face was a mixture of disappointment and pity that made John even more annoyed, he knew she was only trying to help him but he really wished she wouldn't act so condescending all the time.

"It's like a museum dedicated to Sherlock Holmes," She murmured, John's eyebrows rose and he gave an indignant cough.

"Excuse me?" He asked even thought he knew perfectly well what she said.

"I said it's like a museum dedicated to Sherlock Holmes," She repeated, "As a doctor I'm telling you this isn't healthy!"

"Look, Shara, you don't come into a person's house and tell them that," John said giving her an irritated look.

"I'm your friend John, and I'm telling you this isn't right," She continued, ignoring his comment, "You are stuck in a museum dedicated to Sherlock bloody Holmes surrounded by skulls and bullet filled walls and drowning in the memories of a man you barely knew!"

"I can't believe you!" John exclaimed, "I knew him a lot better than you did, a lot better than most people did!"

"No you didn't!" Shara told him in a pleading voice, her face begging him to understand what she was saying, "He was a fraud John, how long until you realise that he lied to you. Every. Fucking. Day?"

"He wasn't Shara!" John told her, before he could continue she was talking over him.

"He was a freak John-"

John stood then, glaring at her furiously, his face full of disgust, when he spoke his voice was low and dangerous, "Do not call him that, he was a greater person than you can ever hope to be!"

"Why did he tell you he was a fraud then John," Shara asked, crossing her arms, her mouth set in a stubborn line, "In his note he told you he was a fraud, why would he lie in his suicide note?"

"Get out!" John ordered, pointing towards the door but not meeting her gaze.

She laughed harshly, "You know I'm right," She said as she left, slamming the door in her wake.

John fell back into his chair and placed his hands over his face, fighting the urge to cry. Because she was right really, wasn't she, why had Sherlock told him in his last few minutes that he was a fake when it was blatantly obvious he wasn't? It just didn't make any sense, but then when had anything to do with Sherlock ever come close to making sense?

"Damn you Sherlock," John cursed as he wiped his hands down his face and neck, "Damn you,"

A knock at the door to the living room caused him to jerk into a sitting position, Mrs Hudson stood in the door way, looking sympathetic but in no way pitying, "I heard yelling, are you okay?" she asked as she cleared his cane and jacket off the sofa so she could sit down comfortably.

John shook his head, "No,"

Mrs Hudson nodded and smiled, "Come and eat dinner with me, I'm afraid I've made far too much pie to eat by myself,"

"Alright I'll follow you down,"


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, another chapter whoo! I'm looking for someone who would like to Beta this fic for me so if your interested send me a PM. If not, don't forget to review! **

John stood at the window and tried to resist the urge to pace, five minutes ago he had gotten a text from Mycroft (Anthea) telling him that they would be there soon. The anticipation he had restrained all the way through dinner with Mrs Hudson was bubbling to the surface, making it impossible to stand or sit still for more than a few minutes. Soon he would see The Fall without shock obscuring what he saw. Maybe he would see something he missed, something important...

No.

He was going to watch the CCTV to get closure, so he could move on. Sherlock was dead. Thinking anything else would do more harm than good.

The door bell rang and John jumped, with butterflies in his stomach he made his way towards the door and opened it for Anthea and Mycroft. Mycroft held his umbrella in his hand even though the weather was perfectly fine that day, Anthea looked bored and held her blackberry in her left hand, even though it wasn't turned on.

"Good evening John," Mycroft greeted as he walked into the living room, smirking slightly as he stared around at the unchanged room, "You changed anything, why?"

"I don't want to, I like this flat exactly as it is," John replied sharply, Mycroft sent John a curious look then glanced around the room for a moment; after a few moments he obviously noticed something and he smiled.

"Argument with Shara?"

"Don't."

Mycroft smirked and handed Anthea a brown paper bag, from it she took a blank DVD case and moved towards the TV. When the player finally loaded the DVD the footage was split into four squares; one square showed the roof of St. Barts, the next showed the street where Sherlock had fallen, the third showed the entrance to the hospital and the last showed the area where John would have to stand. The section showing the roof was empty for a moment until Moriarty stepped out onto it, John gasped and lent forwards; his eyes fixed on the screen.

It was then John realised he was never going to get any closure from watching this; things had gone from confusing to downright baffling.

As he watched Sherlock and Moriarty argue he felt helplessness grip him; how could he possibly understand what was going on if he couldn't hear what they were saying? He was a mere spectator to a vastly complex chess game that relied on subtle details that only the participants were likely to notice; defiantly not an ex soldier who was fond of the 'act now, think later' approach.

But damn him if he wouldn't try.

So he watched the two genius' battle with words, they both took blows but none more so than Sherlock, John could tell that by the way he held himself. In a fit of anger Sherlock dangled Moriarty over the edge of the building; it was in those few seconds that John realised that Sherlock had lost. It was obvious (even to John) by the way that Sherlock now held himself: he wasn't standing tall in his coat and scarf anymore, instead he was slumped and looked to be at a loss. Suddenly a weapon was drawn and fired, just not at whom John had expected.

Jim Moriarty fell to the ground. The consulting criminal was dead, blood seeping from his head and pooling on the ground around him.

Sherlock wheeled around, obviously at a loss of what to do. John watched as his friend began to hyperventilate as he looked round manically for something, his eyes settled on the edge of the roof and soon he began moving towards it. John watched as his cab pulled onto the street, unwanted tears began to fill his eyes as he watched Sherlock's note in silence.

Next came the fall, a moment in time that had been burned into Johns memories forever, it haunted him almost daily and always tormented him in his nightmares. He tried not to flinch when Sherlock toppled off the edge of the building, his arms outstretched as if they were wings, but he did. He didn't look away however, his eyes remained glued to the screen; the scene so terrible he couldn't wrench his eyes away. John braced himself for the impact, but as Sherlock fell he disappeared behind a rubbish truck, John swore loudly as he saw the truck pull away and people gather round the body of his best friend. From the back of the room Anthea pressed pause and the screen froze, for a few seconds no one said anything.

"You realise that the truck had been placed there purposefully, don't you John?" Mycroft asked; his tone almost gentle towards the distraught looking doctor. _Almost_.

"What are you on about?" John asked with a sigh. "It's just a truck!"

"What would be the point in hiding the impact if nothing was strange about it?" Mycroft replied. "Don't you see John, Sherlock's not dead, and he never was,"

"How the hell can you tell?" John demanded, "There is nothing there that you could deduce anything from!"

"I didn't deduce anything," Mycroft frowned, "I just paid attention. Look at how those civilians are focusing on you, stopping you from taking his pulse and not letting you near his neck. They're in on it, they're stopping you for a reason; Sherlock isn't dead,"

"But he _fell!_" John exclaimed, "We all saw him, how could he have survived that?"

"You are so unobservant, Anthea rewind the footage to the fall," Mycroft snapped, Anthea did as she was asked and soon they were watching the fall again. "Look at what direction he's falling" he said as Sherlock fell, the truck pulled away so they could see Sherlock on the ground, "now look at where he's positioned on the ground,"

"Oh my god," John said as he lent forwards in his chair, "He..."

"He's alive," Mycroft finished for him.

"What else?" John demanded, still sceptical, "What other evidence is there,"

"Sherlock in general," Mycroft snorted, "If you truly believed Sherlock had killed himself because of what the press thought you couldn't have known him very well,"

John narrowed his eyes at the Holmes brother, "Don't go there Mycroft," He warned.

"I wonder what Moriarty said to Sherlock on the roof," Anthea mused, cutting across Mycroft's reply. She walked forward and took a seat on the sofa, "To make him jump,"

Mycroft sat back for a moment, then his eyes flicked to John and a look of realisation crossed his features, John raised an eyebrow and waited for the explanation that wasn't long in coming, "Despite his best attempts not to Sherlock did care, and that made him vulnerable,"

John raised his head to meet Mycroft's gaze and held it, "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that maybe Moriarty was threatening to carry out his threat of burning Sherlock's heart." He told the doctor, "Maybe he was threatening you,"

The corner of Johns mouth lifter in a quick half smile, "Don't be stupid Mycroft, I was important, but not that important,"

"Don't underestimate your importance," Mycroft smirked. "He did as you asked,"

"Hardly," John scoffed.

"Do you remember the Henry Fishguard case?" Mycroft asked.

"What that one Sherlock did before the fall, the really boring one about the man who performed suicide in the 1800's," John frowned, "I'm not sure how that shows he did as I asked."

"You asked him to take a low profile case, he did. Can't get lower a profile than a case that took place in the 19th century," he replied with a pointed gaze. John felt his hear clench in guilt, how could he have forgotten what he asked the detective to do? He had been terrible to him, called it boring when Sherlock was only doing as John had asked him to. "Also I think you're missing another relevant part of that case."

"What?"

"Henry Fishguard didn't perform suicide. Sound familiar?"

John was silent for a moment, shell shocked, "Could he have known, even then, what was going to happen?"

"Knowing my brother, yes," Mycroft said with a sad smile. "He probably used the Fishguard case as research,"

"Why didn't he tell us?" John sighed, putting his head in his hands. "That was ages before the fall, why he didn't tell me?"

"Probably because he couldn't," Anthea piped up, "If Mycroft's theory was right then your life might have been at stake,"

"Also he is rather prone to going off on his own," Mycroft chipped in, his tone subtly harsh. "And he might not have known for sure that it was going to happen, despite his faults I doubt Sherlock would have wanted to worry you without being sure,"

John nodded, still uneasy, "What about Moriarty? He had won; Sherlock was a fraud and no one believed in him. Why did he kill himself?"

"Because he didn't win," Mycroft replied, as if it was obvious, "In those final moments my brother outsmarted him,"

John felt a bubble of pride fill his chest and a sad smile spread across his face, "Well if he did die, at least he took that bastard with him,"

"I'm telling you now John, Sherlock is alive," Mycroft told him fiercely.

"Look, Mycroft, you said it yourself back at the warehouse; he could very well disappoint me," John said with a frown, "I don't want to get my hopes up believing he'll come back then find out that all of that was just one final 'fuck you' form Moriarty,"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Think what you will, keep digging and you'll find the evidence to prove it,"

John raised an eyebrow and smirked, "Do you mean that literally?"

Mycroft sent him a withering look, "Check with that Homeless network of my brothers, no doubt they were his accomplices,"

"I'll go to the embankment after work," John promised.

"Hang on," Anthea said, "What about the computer code? What happened to that,"

"No idea," Mycroft shrugged, giving her a strange look. "How about we focus on one thing at a time?" Anthea nodded, "Shall we be off then? We've taken up far too much of your time as it is, we'll leave the tapes with you, in the envelope there's some stills as well,"

John nodded, despite the fact he felt like he was missing something, "Thank you for bringing the footage over, I would say it's been enlightening but it hasn't," Mycroft smiled and as he and Anthea made their way towards the door John realised something, "Oh I need your mother's mobile number, she asked me to ring her when I found something out,"

"Anthea can do it for you," Mycroft told the doctor, giving his PA a smile that she returned, "Goodnight Dr. Watson,"

And they were gone.

John sighed and slumped in his chair, letting all the information sink in. Mycroft thought Sherlock was alive and John had to admit that the evidence was rather compelling; problem was there wasn't enough of it. The memory of the stillness of Sherlock's pulse under his fingers hit him and John realised that if he had faked his death then he must have found a way to stop it. Then something from John's medical training resurfaced.

The squash ball method.

A squash ball pressed into the under arm of a person could stop the heart beat in that arm, Sherlock had been playing with a little blue ball when he was in St Barts; could that have been a coincidence? At the time John had thought it was something that would help him think but could it be something more? John realised with a groan that Sherlock had been planning this for a long while, vital clues could have been hidden in the way he acted for weeks leading up to the fall. John cursed himself for being so unobservant and so... unSherlockian. Why couldn't he have a mind palace so he could keep track of seemingly unimportant memories; why couldn't he deduce secrets from a person with a single glance? If he could all of this could have been avoided, he would have noticed straight off the bat that something was wrong with Sherlock's death and began figuring it out immediately.

John groaned, all the things that didn't add up kept running through his brain, demanding he think of a million ways that Sherlock could have used them to his advantage. He grabbed his computer over and began typing out the things that didn't make sense; Moriarty shooting himself, Sherlock's lack of pulse, the fall, the people on the ground, the way the people acted towards him and how Sherlock had called himself a fake.

If Sherlock had really fallen two things made sense, if he had faked his death four did. In no situation did Moriarty's death make sense and John knew it wouldn't until he somehow found a way to hear their conversation. John wondered whether Sherlock telling him he was a fake was his way of warning him. With a shake of his head John saved the file and put the computer down on the table, he wasn't going to be able to figure anything out without more information and the only way he was going to be able to do that would be by visiting the people who might of had a connection with The Fall, namely the homeless network.

John began cleaning up, taking his time in the menial task to try and stay his thoughts; he knew that if he didn't stay his thoughts now they would never would, he would end up staying up all night looking at those stills going over things he might have missed.

Hell, who was he kidding? He was going to do that anyway.

John brewed himself a pot of coffee, conscious of the long night he had ahead of him. When it had brewed he took his mug into the living room, took up a sharpie and upended the envelope of stills onto the relatively tidy coffee table. They spread across the table and onto the floor like water; one of Mycroft's people had taken what they thought to be all of the important shots and turned them into pictures, there were so many of them! John pulled the first one towards him and began annotating it, after annotating the fifth one he realised he was going to need something to make a note of all the repeating thoughts in. John rushed up to his room and grabbed the leather bound note book Ella had first given him before he had mentioned that maybe a blog was a tad more 21st century, it was perfect for what he wanted.

John stayed there for most of the night, until in the wee small hours of the morning he felt exhaustion begin to pull him back into the nightmare filled blackness of sleep.

*

The car slowed to a halt and Mycroft stepped out of the sleek, black vehicle and closed the door on Anthea's question. Mycroft had asked the driver to bring them to one of the harsher suburbs of the city so he could meet with a man called Hamish Williams. Mr Williams lived with a flat mate in winter road, number 16, he had no family his people could find and it looked like the man had just burst into existence a few months ago. Mycroft looked around the neighbourhood, the road they were on was lined with ancient terraced housing that looked like they were being held together by sheer desperation of their owners and their gardens were filled with various pieces of junk that was slowly being covered by the uncut grass. Mycroft walked towards number 16 and opened the rusty metal gate that hung off its hinges, filling the chill night air with a high pitched squeal; he walked briskly up the crumbling concrete garden path and tapped his knuckles on the wooden door. The sounds of hurried footsteps drifted from behind the red painted door and the handle turned and opened a crack.

"Who's there?" A trembling, male, voice asked. Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead put on his most convincing 'I'm not going to hurt you' face.

"My name is Harry Turner; I'm here to see a Mr Hamish Williams, does he live here still?" Mycroft asked in his cheeriest tone.

"What do you want him for," the flat mate asked, his voice still pathetic.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, privacy and all that," Mycroft replied in a light tone his voice wasn't used to being in, "He knows I'm coming,"

The door opened slowly to reveal a man of average height with straightened brunette hair falling in his overly large blue eyes, "I suppose you can come in then," He said, moving aside to let Mycroft in.

The house was dark and dank and smelled of mould, the carpet was worn thread bare in several places and the wall paper was simply awful, Mycroft fought to keep the look of happy idiocy on his face as he looked round the house instead of the look of disgust that threatened to break his composure.

"Hamish is upstairs," The flatmate said as he pulled down his t-shirt nervously, "I'll go get him for you,"

"No it's fine, I'll go on up," Mycroft smiled, "Which is his room,"

"Um, third on the right," The man told Mycroft before moving back into the living room where the TV was playing. Mycroft smiled and walked up the creaking, stained stairs. Upstairs wasn't any better than downstairs; it was a single corridor with three doors leading off it and a final one at the end of it. A dirty light bulb hung from the ceiling, giving off just enough light for Mycroft to be able to see by, he counted along three doors, knocked twice and entered.

Sherlock Holmes sat in the middle of the room, random papers strewn around him and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. When he saw his brother he pressed the cigarette out in the crystal ash tray by his side and rose to his feet. The two Holmes brothers stared at each other for a few moments, not saying a word; Mycroft broke it after a few minutes with a smirk.

"Thought you were on patches," He commented dryly.

"Thought you were staying away from the cake," Sherlock replied dryly, his lips twisting into a smirk.

"You're blonde,"

"Your hair line is receding,"

"You're wearing a 'hoodie',"

"You need to stop stating the obvious," Sherlock retorted after thinking for a moment.

Mycroft stared at his brother and began cataloguing the changes that had taken place over the last six months; he was thinner, if it were possible; his curly hair had been cut short and close to his head then dyed a terrible bottle blonde colour; deep purple bruises were present under each eye; and his once long nails had been bitten to the nail bed. Sherlock was stressed, that was clear from the bitten nails and the redness of his lips from where he had been biting it, Mycroft had no idea why though.

"Tell me what happened." Mycroft demanded, "I knew you weren't dead from the text you sent me, but I have no idea of the details,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began his tale, through it Mycroft stayed silent, not wanting to encourage his brother to be anymore arrogant than he already was, but he had to admit that what he had done was rather amazing; even for a Holmes brother. When Sherlock finished with a final smirk Mycroft was silent for a moment, before pulling his baby brother into a rare hug.

"For god's sake Sherly, next time you go faking your own death don't just send me a text," Mycroft told him, genuine emotion in his voice.

Sherlock forced his way out of the hug, glaring at his brother, "Honestly Mycroft, I was about to fake my own death, I was busy!"

"Even so, it would have been nice to have something other than 'Just go along with it,'" Mycroft replied. He looked around the small room and the papers that littered the floor and walls. "What have you been doing all this time?"

"Moriarty may be dead but his web still remains," Sherlock told his brother bitterly, gesturing to the walls. "Mostly it's now controlled by a man named Sebastian Moran,"

"_Colonel_ Sebastian Moran, if I remember rightly," Mycroft corrected, earning a glare from Sherlock.

"Yes well, if I want to return without getting my friends shot I need to get rid of him," He finished, "But it's much harder than I first anticipated, it's going to take a lot longer than I thought it would,"

"That why I'm here," Mycroft began, "John's beginning to figure it out."

A mix of emotions played out across Sherlock's face; pride annoyance, maybe even fear. "Took him a shorter time than I imagined it would for him to realise something was wrong,"

"Mummy played a part in it," Mycroft informed him, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Typical Mother, always putting her nose where it wasn't wanted," the consulting detective mumbled bitterly, running his hands through his almost white hair and standing. "You need to stop him from finding anything more out, It's too soon, too dangerous,"

"He can handle it Sherlock, he's a soldier," Mycroft frowned, "God knows John needs a little danger, he's been going out of his mind with boredom,"

"Not yet," Sherlock insisted desperately, "Moran's still too powerful, still too dangerous,"

Mycroft raised an eye brow, "Is that _care_ I hear in your tone dear brother,"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said in a harsh tone, "I need you to do this for me,"

"No, John needs to find out, he misses you Sherlock. You have time though, he still doesn't quite believe it, do what you can, I'd say you have two months. You can have access to my people whenever you need them now, if you really try Sherlock, you would be able to do this," Mycroft said quickly.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed in a pleading tone.

"You've done enough to John as it is Sherlock," Mycroft told Sherlock harshly, "The least you can do is not hide the truth from him,"

"Mycroft, it's _dangerous,_ John could _die!_" Sherlock pleaded, "Please,"

A smirk formed on Mycroft's lips as he gave his brother a curious look, "Did my brother just say please?" Sherlock didn't reply so Mycroft continued, "That doctor of yours certainly has changed you, though I can't decide whether it's a good thing or a bad thing... seeing as he's the reason you jumped off a building, most likely the latter,"

"You can't tell him I'm alive Mycroft, you can't!"

"There's no fun in that Sherlock," Mycroft smirked, "Watching him try and figure it out however, yes, there is a lot of fun in that,"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled.

Mycroft just laughed and began to make his way back towards the door, when his hand was on it he turned back and looked at his brother's tormented face. He stood with his hands twisted into his hair, his grey eyes desperate and pleading. Mycroft had seen that look on his face only once on his otherwise glaring face; it had been when Mycroft was leaving him at the rehab centre, one of the worst moments in his life. Mycroft felt guilt for a split second until he brushed it a side with a smirk.

"See you soon Sherlock,"

**There you go, another chapter :) don't forget to review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N okay here's chapter four, hope you like it! I'm still looking for beta so if your interested send me a PM. Don't forget to review and DFTBA!**

For John getting up in the morning used to be the worst part of the day before Afghanistan, but now the cold light of the morning sun had become a welcome relief from the night mares that filled the night. Sometimes he dreamt of the war, sometimes it was the fall, but mostly it was just darkness laced with the all encompassing fear that had gripped him as he realised that bullet had hit, the moments when he had gasped "Please God, let me live!".

So John opened his eyes to the beeping of his alarm and longed not to have to go to work today, he was eager to sleep off the exhaustion that clung to him because of the late night spent pouring over the stills and continue where he had left off. He couldn't though, Shara was pissed and there was little point annoying her even further. John began the mundane rituals of getting ready; eating, washing, clothing himself and he did it all without thinking about it, acting on routine. Within the hour he was out of the flat, calling goodbye to Mrs Hudson's closed door and walking out on the street, cane in hand.

John walked down the already busy streets, already his mind was beginning to stop focusing so much on the mysteries that surrounded Sherlock and The Fall, and instead he began thinking about boring things like how little jam he had left and the lack of milk in the fridge. John frowned for a moment, trying to figure out whether that was a good or bad thing, after all he needed to find him but if he focused on it obsessively then someone would say something and he would be shipped back off to Ella again.

John turned down an alley and passed someone spray painting, they painter used a bright yellow spray -smuggler yellow- he looked at what was written and felt his mouth fall open.

_I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES!  
>MORIARTY WAS REAL!<br>RICHARD BROOK IS A FRAUD!_

The still drying yellow was a stark contrast against the dull, red brick back ground, making it the most obvious thing in the alley. The Painter looked up, his face shadowed by the bright sun behind him and the orange hoodie that was pulled up around his head. The moment he saw John he dropped the can of spray paint and began running.

"Thanks!" John called after his, "People need to know!"

John looked up at the drying paint with a small smile, the doctor had long lost faith in the British population after they believed the stories so readily, but now… Maybe some of them weren't so stupid after all. John grinned and continued walking; a positive energy he hadn't felt for a long while beginning to course through him, maybe work wouldn't be so bad.

It wasn't. Shara still wasn't speaking to John, which was completely fine in his opinion, the patients were being friendly and actually seemed to listen to what he said. The hours passed quickly, thank god, and soon he was walking out the automatic door, calling a sarcastic 'See you later Shara!' over his shoulder towards the mute nurse.

He worked from seven till one that day do he had agreed to meet Harry for coffee at the nearest Starbucks. Ever since John had stayed with her after The Fall Harry had demanded they stay in touch, so they met every week for coffee. To be honest he never really looked forward to meeting his sister but he had to; after all, she was his sister.

When John entered the coffee shop Harry wasn't there yet so he ordered a coffee and sat down at a window table, content to sit and stare out of the window while he waited for his sister to make an appearance. It had always amazed him how little attention people on the street paid to the people in cafés, they were happy to just walk past, not caring who was watching them go about their daily lives. It was a lot like the cabbie thing really, no one paid attention to anyone out of their bubble, John knew he had done the same until Sherlock had swooped in and taken a pin to that bubble.

The doors to the café opened and Harry burst in, her long, straight, brunette hair flying around her face as the wind blew it. Harry was almost the complete opposite to John and not just in looks; she was rude, over confidant, vibrant in the way that she dressed and an all round annoying person. So it didn't surprise John when she stomped over to the counter in her heeled boots and began to flirt shamelessly with the guy behind the counter. Once she had a coffee and a number she would never call, Harry walked over to his table, a huge smile plastered on her face.

"Hey bro!" She greeted loudly, John took a deep breath and forced a smile onto his face, hiding the rising irritation she was causing.

"Hello Harry," He replied then added, "You're a lesbian,"

"My girlfriend agrees,"

John exhaled loudly, "So why were you flirting with that guy?"

Harry rolled her eyes, "I was winding him up and it worked," she grinned, brandishing the scrap of scribbled on paper, "Also I have good news: Clara's giving me a second chance!"

"I reiterate: Why the flirting?"

Harry swatted his arm playfully, "Bugger off John," John chuckled into his coffee.

"So how are you?" John asked after he put his cup down.

"I'm good, works boring though," She told him with a grimace, "Everything better now that I have Clara back though, what with her being the love of my life and everything,"

John rolled his eyes, "I'm sure she is,"

"She is," Harry assured her brother fiercely, "She wouldn't put up with me otherwise,"

John laughed and began telling her various stories about the past weeks, she wasn't annoying him yet so the conversations came freely and easily. They bounced between topics quickly, going from discussing the latest episode of 'Doctor who' to the recent serial killer; the one that had been killing people and using the bodies to recreate famous paintings. John should have known that it was only a matter of time before Harry said something insensitive that spoilt everything or he would say the wrong thing that would give Harry reason to believe that he was still depressed.

"So, have you got a girl friend yet," Harry asked, a light smile tugging at her lips.

"Nope," John replied as he lent back in the uncomfortable wooden chair.

Harry raised an eyebrow, "Really? From all the stories about Shara I would have though she would have asked you out by now,"  
>John frowned, "Why would she do that,"<p>

"Well she obviously likes you," She told him with a smirk, "And the problem the last time was a certain consulting detective and now that he's gone I'm surprised she hadn't given you a second chance,"

"Have you even met the woman?" John demanded even though he knew the answer.  
>"No,"<p>

"Well she's a bitch," John told her and Harry laughed, "I'm serious, she came into the flat yesterday and told me that it was like a museum dedicated to Sherlock Holmes,"

"Ugh, you're right: bitch," Harry told him with a grimace, "So no girl friend,"

"No,"

"Not even a little one?"

"Harry," John said in a warning tone, his sister rolled her eyes, then a look of sly realisation struck her features. With a smirk Harry leaned forwards, put her head in her hands and cocked her head to one side, her large brown eye twinkling dangerously.

"You were in love with Sherlock, weren't you?" She accused, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

"No," John replied immediately, "I'm straight remember, I like people of the opposite sex, _hetero_sexual,"

Harry rolled her eyes, "Yeah, because it's _perfectly_heterosexual to keep visiting you flatmates grave every week, and its fine not to move a _single_one of his things because-"

"Harry!" John exclaimed, "He's not here, it doesn't matter, leave it!"

"So you did!"

"No I didn't so for fucks sake shut up about it!" John exclaimed. Harry lent back quick and refused to meet his gaze, instead staring out the window with a stony expression.

Harry was silent for a while and that irrational feeling of guilt began to well up inside John, he scowled at himself. Snapping at Harry had been a perfectly reasonable response, she was being a bitch, but then she was only trying to wind him up. After a few more minutes of silence Harry turned back to her brother, her expression soft and guilty.

"I'm sorry," She mumbled, "It's just you're still so upset over The Fall, you didn't stay this sad this long when Dad died,"

"Yes, well, our father wasn't a very good man," John replied, looking away, when he looked back Harry was frowning.

"And Sherlock was?"

"The best,"

Harry frowned, "See that doesn't make sense John, he _lied _to you yet you still believe he was a good person,"

"That's because he didn't lie to me," John scowled, "Sherlock wasn't a fraud, he was for real, hell, you have to admit if he was a fraud he was still a genius to pull it off for four years,"

"But the papers!"

"Oh come on Harry," John exclaimed, "You know the papers will print anything, you know that as well as I do!"

"There was evidence," Harry protested, "That Richard Brook fellow,"

"There's your fraud," John exclaimed, pressing his pointed figure down onto the table as emphasis, "His real name is Moriarty, he tricked everyone into believing Sherlock was a fake!"

Harry shook her head sadly, "John, when was the last time you went to see Ella?"

"I don't need a physiatrist," John protested, "What I need is for people to stop being so stupid and face the truth for once in their god-damned lives!"

Harry stared at him for a long moment, her eyes filled with pity, "I'm going to book you an appointment with Ella and you need to promise me you'll go,"

"No," John replied immediately, crossing his arms like a stubborn child, "I won't,"

"Please John," Harry begged with her huge brown eyes.

John sighed, his sister had always know how to get him to do something, always, today was no exception, "Stop that,"

"What?"

"The face and the massive eyes, you know it always works," he relied, the latter part through gritted teeth, "Fine, I'll think about it,"

Harry grinned, "Thank you!"

John just glared in reply.

Harry's phone buzzed, "I gotta go, clara wants me to meet up with her,"

"Have fun," John sighed as his sister got up and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"I will," She promised, "I'll text you when I have the time for the appointment,"

John rolled his eyes, "See you next week,"

"Laterz,"

"_See. You. Later?"  
>"No you won't!"<em>

John exhaled loudly through his nose, dispelling the flash back; he got to his feet and followed his sister out of the door, the air was freezing cold compared to the cosy warmth inside the coffee shop and he wished he had picked up his scarf and gloves. With a grimace, John shoved his hands deep inside his pockets and began to make his way towards the underground, he was going to the embankment at waterloo bridge and hopefully a member of the homeless network would be there.

John got off at waterloo station and made his way towards the riverside, it didn't take long and soon he was limping up the stone steps towards the seating are that overlooked the river. The same homeless person from last year sat there, nursing a polystyrene cup, a jumble of clashing colours protecting her from the cold.

"Got any change?" She asked with a suspicious look on her face. John tried to remember what Sherlock had said, for all he knew there maybe some secret code to this and he had to get that information.

"Erm, what for?" he asked, the woman grinned.

"Oh you know, a cuppa tea, bag of chips," She replied with a smirk, looking excitedly at what John had in his hand. John handed over the fifty pound note and the rolled up request inside it and turned to leave, "Oi, what's your name?"

"Doctor John Watson," He replied before he thought it might be a better idea to not give it.

"Thanks doc," She smiled.

John nodded curtly and turned to walk down the steps; if this didn't work, he had just wasted fifty quid.

"_BORED!"_Sherlock groaned from his sprawled position on the mattress in the corner of the room. His search for the other members of the web had ground to a halt while he waited for the network to get back to him, so he was left staring at the walls, his brain slowly turning to mush. He was wasting time, every second that he didn't catch them was another second that they had free to do whatever they wanted, another second to hurt John if they wanted to. Sherlock had tried to do as he used to and stop caring, it could cloud the deductions and make things worse, but he just couldn't, not when it was John; John was always the exception.

The Flatmate (Smith, Saxon, Sam? Sherlock couldn't remember, he'd deleted it, The Flatmate was boring) knocked on the door, "Sherlock, are you awake?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, of course he was awake, sleeping was a waste of time; John wouldn't have said that, John would have known.

_John, I'm sorry John!_

Sherlock shook his head slightly, trying to rid himself of the memory of lying on the rain soaked ground while John tried to find his pulse. He had tried to delete that memory so many times but it always came back, right when he didn't want it too, he supposed it was his punishment really, to have to always remember the pain he had caused his best friend. His only friend.

The Flatmate sighed and entered the room, he took in Sherlock's sprawled, pyjama clad body and shook his head, "Have you even had a shower today?"  
>Sherlock just gave him a withering look.<p>

The Flatmate sighed again, even John hadn't done this much sighing, someone should get this man an award, "Look, Molly promised you would pay your half of the rent, I need it,"

"Don't have it," Sherlock replied in a bored tone.

"Why?" The Flatmate demanded.

"I gave it away," The consulting detective replied with a shrug.

"You what?" The Flatmate gasped, "Who the bloody hell to?"

"A homeless person," Sherlock told him, "Can you leave? You're infecting the room with your stupid,"

"You gave two hundred pounds to a homeless person?" he exclaimed, Sherlock groaned at his stupidity.

"Fifty, the rest I never had," Sherlock sighed.

"Well when will you have it?" he demanded, crossing his spindly arms.

"Um, well, seeing as I'm supposed to be dead: never!" Sherlock replied with a sarcastic smile, The Flatmate glared at him with those annoyingly large, watery blue eyes.

"Who was the bloke that was here yesterday?" he demanded, "Can you get money off him?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You're so boring, all about money, John wasn't like this,"

"Yeah, well, I'm not him," He snapped, "Look, get me the money or you're out of here!"

Sherlock smirked and looked him over quickly, "You won't do that, you still need to be in your sisters good books, after all you're back on the drugs! Probably my fault really, an added strain, the lack of sleep weakened your self control. That's why you want that money, I'm guessing you owe some dealers a good bit of cash, probably my half of the rent for the next two months; am I right?"

The Flatmate turned bright red, backed out of the room and slammed the door shut.

Sherlock's smirk deepened, "Thought so,"

Sherlock lent back and stared at the ceiling. Before The Flatmate moved in it must have belonged to a young family, judging from the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. He couldn't be bothered to deduce anything else, the family would have been boring; mother probably ran off with someone else, that was how most of these things ended.

Sherlock's phone buzzed a little while later:

_Take a look at the news, you'll find it interesting. –MH_

Sherlock frowned and pulled up the latest headlines on his phone: a woman's body had been found as a re creation of the Mona Lisa. The detective grinned and jumped up, moving towards one of the walls in three long strides; a suspect for a member of the web was an art teacher at a secondary school in Hounslow. The art teacher fit the bill, but there wasn't enough data, he needed more.

Sherlock grinned, finally things were getting interesting!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey guys, thanks for the reviews! Sorry this one's a little late, for some reason it took me ages to write and edit! Hope you enjoy this one I'm not too happy with the ending, I'll probably come back and re-write it eventually. Don't forget to review and DFTBA!**

A week had passed since John had coffee with Harry, and as he looked at the wall that was decorated with the stills, he was painfully aware of the fact that things still made little sense; how did he survive, how did get away with it and what the _hell _did Moriarty said to get him to jump?

John decided to focus on one thing at the moment and that was how he had gotten away with it, Sherlock had a death certificate but where the hell had he gotten it? A though hit John and he realised how Sherlock had done it, and _god _was it obvious!

_Molly!_

John hit his forehead with his palm, how the hell could he forget the doting morgue attendant? She should have been the first thing he thought of! Immediately John was on his feet, grabbing his keys and coat and making his way out of the door. He made his way towards the Tesco express that was just a little farther down Baker Street and grabbed some sandwiches and two cans of coke; he needed an excuse to see her.

John exited the shop and got a cab. As he sat on his own he got that familiar feeling of loneliness he always felt when he took cabs now, the empty void to his left was just so glaring and obvious, the army doctor sighed slightly and stared out the window. He hopped out of the car quickly when they got there and almost knocked over a man wearing a hoddie, he called out sorry but the man just gave him the middle figure and carried on walking.

John made his way quickly through the deserted hospital halls towards the morgue, when he got there he knocked a few times and stuck his head round the door. Molly stood by a covered body making notes on a clip board; she looked up at him, grinned and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ears.

"Hello John," She greeted with a smile, John stepped into the room and returned the smile.

"Hey Molly," He replied, "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm alright," She told him; she glanced at his empty hands and frowned, "No cane?"

John smiled again, deliberately ignoring her question, truth was he did need it, the pain was starting to get bad but in his rush to leave the flat he had forgotten it. "Do you want lunch? I picked up some sandwiches from Tesco, chicken alright?"

Molly's smile faded but was quickly replaced by one that was so utterly false you didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see it was fake, "Go and wait in my office, I'll just put this one back," She said gesturing to the covered body.

John nodded and entered the well lit office; it was your generic office, all wood and metal. Yet molly had managed to sprinkle her own personality around it through pink cushions and a few pictures of her family and two cats. John took a seat opposite the desk and got the sandwiches and cans out of the plastic bag, Molly walked in a few moments later, her hands clasped in front of her and an unreadable expression on her face.

"What is it John?" she asked after she settled herself down in her seat. "I know you want to ask me something so please, just ask me,"

John opened his mouth to speak but couldn't think of a reply to it so he just went with, "What?"

"People only ask me to lunch when they want something; Sherlock, Jim, and now you. Could you just… Please, just… Tell me straight off, or something, it's eaiser that way," she laughed shakily, "After all, you don't want to keep wasting your money on me,"

"Molly…" John sighed.

"Just ask me John,"

John exhaled nosily, "I know Sherlock's alive and I know you helped him fake his death,"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Molly told him with a shake of her head, biting her lip, "Sherlock's dead, I would know, after all, I had to… do my job,"

"You know exactly what I mean," John said in a monotone.

Molly shook her head again, "I swear John, Sherlock is dead-"

John tried restraining the frustration that was beginning to build but had to cut her off, "Molly stop it, stop trying to protect him!"

"No John, you stop!" Molly begged, her face desperate, "He's dead, just leave it, move on!"

"Sherlock is alive, and you know where he is!" John insisted, "For god's sake just tell me, _tell me!"_ he said, shouting the last part. Molly bit her lip but didn't move, she just kept staring at him with her pain filled, brown eyes as his own blue ones begged her, finally she sighed and looked down at her sandwich.

"I told him I wouldn't be able to lie if I saw you like this," Molly murmured, shaking her head, "All destroyed and hopeless, it's terrible seeing you like it, you're normally so strong. It's been killing me keeping this from you these past few months but I had to, he begged me not to tell you, _begged_ John!"

"Just tell me where he is Molly," John pleaded, "I need to see him,"

"I can't,"

"Why?"

Molly looked up at him with a strange expression on her face, she sighed slightly, "Because you'll be in danger if I do,"

John frowned and looked at her suspiciously, "What danger?"

Molly bit her lip, "I don't know, Sherlock said he couldn't tell me; the less I know the better, he told me,"

"Can you find out?" John asked.

"No, I haven't heard from his for almost a month now," Molly told him with a frown as she opened her sandwich, "Not for lack of trying, he won't answer his calls,"

John's eyes lit up, "You have his number?"

Molly sighed, "John don't ask for it, please, I won't give it to you, I told you, I can't,"

"I just," John sighed, "I want tangible evidence Molly, I just want to fricking hear his voice again!"

Molly didn't reply, just took a bite of the sandwich; John began to follow her lead but stopped, "So is that all you're going to tell me?"

"Yes, I'm sorry but he made me promise," Molly told him honestly, her eyes begging him to understand.

John sighed, "I would say it's alright, but it's not, I miss him and to know you have the way to contact him but won't give it to me is torture."

"I'm sorry John," she replied mournfully, John nodded and began eating, silence began.

"So how's your family?" John asked, after the silence had become awkward.

"Mums okay,"

"Do you have any siblings?"

Molly nodded, "I've got a brother, Scott,"

"Is he alright?" John asked, hating his lame attempt at small talk.

"Not really," Molly said with a wince, "He's an addict, he's got a new flat mate though, maybe he'll help,"

"Haven't you tried booking him into rehab?"John frowned.

"He refused to go," Molly shrugged, "I couldn't force him,"

John nodded, and then remembered something, "Sherlock defiantly fell, right?" Molly nodded, "So how did he survive?"

Molly frowned, "I don't know if I can tell you."

"Go on, I know he's alive, what harm can knowing how he survived do?" John smirked. Molly sighed slightly and took a sip form her can.

"Go back to where he fell and see," Molly said finally, "Please don't ask anything else, I've betrayed Sherlock enough today,"

"You haven't really betrayed him Molly," John told her, reaching forwards and patting her hand, "You just confirmed what Mycroft told me and what I had figured out,"

Molly's eyes widened, "Mycroft knows?"

"Yeah, he was the one that got me all the stills and everything so I could work it out," John narrowed his eyes at the look of realisation that was on her face, "What?"

"In the beginning Sherlock was trying desperately to make sure Mycroft didn't find out," Molly told him.

"My fault, I was the one that forced him to look at the footage, I don't think he had touched it," John replied. He frowned; it didn't really make sense, Mycroft was big brother, he had access to all the cameras in the country, so why hadn't he looked? John frowned, he would have to make sure he asked him later.

Molly nodded then looked at the clock, "I really need to get back to work," John looked up, 1:30.

"Gotta play spot the difference," John joked, Molly half smiled before picking up the rubbish and putting it in the bin beside her desk.

"I'm sorry John, I really am, but I can't, I think he trusts me and I've broken it enough already," Molly told him, he hands clasped in front of her.

"See you soon," He said, pressing a kiss to her cheek, "When I've found him we'll have to go out for coffee or something,"  
>"John…" Molly began but John cut her off by walking away with a smile.<p>

"See you!"

John walked as fast as he could through the deserted halls of the hospital, when he got outside he walked towards the street where Sherlock had fallen. He looked around the street for a long moment, comparing it to the one he barely remembered six months ago. It hadn't really changed much, but one thing stood out more than anything else.

A mesh bin full of different coloured plastic bags, just like you would find in every single hospital in the country.

It was so unassuming, so normal that John's eyes had just glanced over it. Like a chameleon it blended in, so much a part of what you expect to see at a hospital it barely even registered. But it was there; if that had been filled with shock absorber Sherlock could have landed safely then just tumbled out onto the pavement. As John stared at it a similar truck to the one that had hidden Sherlock's landing from the cameras pulled up, a man got out and began chucking the rubbish into the back.

John smiled and walked away, the jigsaw pieces were finally beginning to slot together. He turned down another street and noticed a black car making rolling up beside him. John rolled his eyes and turned towards it, the car door opened and Mycroft looked out at him.

"John," He greeted in a bored tone, his face void of expression, "Get in the car,"

John rolled his eyes again, stepped into the car and sat down next to the Holmes brother.

"Where's your shadow?" John smirked, Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Who do you mean by that?" Mycroft replied in a forced tone.

"Anthea, who do you think I mean?" John replied with a chuckle.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, "She's in the front with the driver," He told the army doctor, "Tell me, what have you found out? Your mood seems to have lightened considerably compared to what it's been like the past few times I've visited,"

"Sherlock's alive," John began; the older man rolled his eyes.

"Like I told you," Mycroft replied evenly.

"Yeah, like you told me," John sighed, "I managed to work out how he did it, well, Molly kind of told me,"

Mycroft's eyes widened in interest, "How?"

"Laundry bin, he landed in a laundry bin, it was probably full of shock absorbers," John told him.

Mycroft nodded and smiled, "Of course, the truck, it was a laundry truck." Mycroft frowned, "Well done Sherlock,"

John resisted the urge to gawp, "Didn't expect you to congratulate him,"

"Well, it was rather clever," Mycroft replied, "What do you think?"

"My best friend faked his death, I don't really care how clever it is so long as he comes home," John replied.

"Mycroft raised an eye brow, "You both have the strangest relationship, you talk about him as if you're romantically involved,"

"I swear to _god, _the next person who implies that I am in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes is going to be punched in the face!" John exclaimed, he gave Mycroft a pointed look, "Regardless of their position in the British government,"

Mycroft chuckled, "You say that yet the one thing you care most about is whether he comes _home _or not,"

John sighed, "God, Mycroft, normal people in the car here, please explain why that shows how much I '_love_' my flat mate?" he exclaimed bitterly.

"Well, in a platonic relationship I would have expected you to say, 'so long as he comes _back_," by saying 'Comes _home'_ it suggests a much deeper relationship," Mycroft told him, smirking all the while.

"He's my best friend, surely that's a '_much deeper relationship,'_" John scowled, putting air quotations in when needed.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed in a knowing manner, "Whatever you say John,"

The car drove on for another five minutes and the two men sat in stony silence, after a while the car began to slow and John looked questioningly over at Mycroft then out at the unfamiliar scenery, "What's going on, where are we?"

Mycroft pointed at a homeless woman sat in a red blanket, "I'm am reliably informed that she had information to give you,"

John nodded, got out the car and walked over to her, shoving his hands deep into his coat pocket as he went. The woman looked up as he approached and looked at him strangely; John pulled his coat tighter around himself and wondered how she could just sit in the freezing cold with only a blanket. _Because there's nowhere else she can be. _John thought with a frown.

"Spare change?" She asked as he approached, John thought back to what Sherlock had replied with before.

"Erm, don't mind if I do?" John replied in a questioning tone. The woman smiled slightly and held out a piece of folded paper; John smiled and took it, placing it in his pocket. John walked back to Mycroft's car and got in, thankful for the warmth.

Mycroft gave him an impatient look and with a sigh John unfolded the scrap of paper. Scribbled in untidy scrawl in the centre was:

_If you value your life, get out of London. The war is about to begin. _

John looked up at the Holmes brother and handed him the paper without saying anything. Mycroft looked at it for a long moment before folding it back up and giving it back, his expression was unreadable.

"You'll leave?" Mycroft asked.

"God no," John snorted. "Even if that had scared me enough to want to leave, where the hell could I go?"

"Who knows? Good job you won't be leaving," Mycroft replied in a snide tone, "What with how much you enjoy danger and war,"

"Don't be a dick Mycroft," John warned with a sigh.

Mycroft raised his eyes to the heavens, "So rude, other than your unfaltering loyalty I don't see what Sherlock see's in you,"

John sighed, turned to the window and stared at the raindrops that were beginning to beat down on the windows; looks like a storm was rolling in.

Sherlock slammed his head back against the lumpy headrest and groaned slightly; stake outs were boring, a short bit of calm before the inevitable storm. They were dull, a waste of time and something he might have enjoyed if John were here. Sherlock growled in frustration at how pathetic he was being. He had survived long before John had entered his life and he should be able to survive without him.

The house he was staking out belonged to Daniel Moore, a secondary school art teacher with a penchant for recreating famous paintings with the bodies of his murder victims. But that wasn't why he was here; Sherlock was here for _him, _for Moran. The network had told him that Moran was going to be visiting here tonight, and so here he waited.

Sherlock drummed his figures against the steering wheel of The Flatmates car, he had borrowed it for a bit, of course The Flatmate didn't know he had borrowed it, but it was for the best, this way he wouldn't be able to get the drugs that Molly was trying to stop him taking. She had tried everything, bought him the car, found him the house, even got him at a job as a cleaner at St. Barts but the call of the drugs was too strong and he was too weak. Sherlock smirked, the poor boy was probably going through withdrawal right now; he was going to be pissed when Sherlock got back.

A car turned onto Moore's street, it was small, nothing fancy; the sort of car a young man in university might have. Sherlock was genuinely surprised when it pulled up outside the teacher's house and Moran got out. He chided himself for being stupid, after all it was the perfect car to have if he was trying to stay under the radar; small, unassuming, not memorable and no defining features.

Moran knocked on the door to Moore's house, after a few seconds (thirty, he was in the back of the house, probably the kitchen but Sherlock couldn't be sure at this distance) the murderer answered the door. The two of them spoke for a few minutes then Moore went back in the house as Moran went to the car. Moore reappeared in a coat a few minutes later, locked the door and walked towards where Moran stood. Moran said something else and got into his car, after a seconds hesitation Moore mirrored his actions and got in. The car drove off and turned left, Sherlock stared his.

Sherlock smiled and took his phone out; from memory he punched Donovan's number in and sent a text:

_Daniel Moore, Hounslow, art teacher: he's your killer._

He slipped his phone into his pocket and followed Moran, from the direction the killer was heading in Sherlock could tell where they were headed. There was on old warehouse across the river where Moran liked to conduct meetings, no doubt he was going there. Sherlock took a longer route than the one Moran would take, he might miss something but he needed to stay undercover, he needed to stay dead.

After driving for fifteen minutes Sherlock turned into an industrial site and let the car roll to a stop. He got out, closed the door and ran quietly towards warehouse 14; he slipped inside the cold building and hid behind a pile of boxes. Moran stood in the middle, surrounded by thirty dangerous looking people, Sherlock peered round the boxes and took note of their faces and saved them in his mind palace; when he got home he would try and put names to faces. Before anyone could see him Sherlock ducked back around the boxes and listened intently.

"Evening everyone," Moran began in his deep tone, "Now I'm not going to fuck around with pleasantries like Jim used to, I'm just going to get on with it, clear?" There was a pause as people nodded, "Good, so first off we have a problem people, the name of this problem is Dr. John Watson."

"He's snooping people, sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. Luckily for us he's digging some rather interesting things up," Sebastian continued, popping the p on 'up', "Turns out our favourite detective might have done a bit of cheating, didn't stick to Jim's rules,"

_Oh John, why couldn't you have just believed it?_

"Is Holmes alive then?" a high, feminine voice piped up.

"I was getting to that Peace, so would just _shut up_ and let me finish!" Moran growled, shouting the shut up, for a moment the warehouse was deadly quiet as the shout echoed off the walls. "Sherlock Holmes is alive my friends and do you know what that means?" He paused, "Bets. Are. off!"

Sebastian began to laugh and quickly the warehouse was full of laugher from the various criminals; some of it genuine, others false and nervous.

"New plan guys," Moran told them, rubbing his hands together, "John Watson dies, but we're going to do it _properly_. None of this boring reputation destroying Jim enjoyed. We're doing the proper, public execution method, after all this is _war_ people, let's get public on this! I am done hiding in the shadows, letting lesser criminals take the blame for what I accomplish, its time London realised who's really calling the shots!"

"Surely that's a bad thing," the feminine voice, Peace, came again. "We've operated in the shadows for a long time now Moran, it's what we know and it works,"

"Its cowardice," Moran replied, "I thought your name was irony, looks like it's changed you, maybe you should go back to where Jim found you if you're so fond of peace again,"

Peace snorted, "Hardly, I want to kill Watson and be remembered as badly as the rest of us, but not from the inside of a prison cell; I like being able to do what I want,"

"Fair enough, just remember who's in charge," Moran told her bitterly, "When I say jump, you jump, otherwise you'll end up in front of New Scotland Yard with 'I've killed seventeen people' imprinted on your forehead." The woman said nothing so Moran continued, "Any way, where was I? Oh yeah. Next Wednesday is a month after Holmes' birthday, a month after Watson began getting interesting, next Wednesday we are going to draw him out and _boom," _Moran mimed shooting someone, "Blow his brains out. Publically,"

Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on stopping his racing heart. '_Distance yourself,' _Sherlock told himself, '_You aren't good to anyone when you're emotionally involved!'_ Sherlock got to his feet and quietly slinked out into the night, Moran had gone on to talking about the business side of things and Sherlock could feel his mind begin to rebel at having to listen to that.

A plan was forming in his mind as he drove back to The Flatmates house, it was dangerous and risked everything, but then, what other plan was there?


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N** **Hi, thanks for reading! This one hardly has any John in it so sorry! We're getting close to the area where my plan runs out so a few of the updates might be a little longer while I plan. Please don't forget to review and DFTBA.**

Scott Hooper was a curious sort of man, Mycroft realised as he watched him walk down a street on the CCTV footage. He was the sort of person who could have quite easily become a John Watson type of person; loyal, brave and adventurous. Unfortunately he was simply too weak. When faced when the problem that could turn him into the hero he could become, Mycroft had no doubt that Scott Hooper would just lie down and let it destroy him. A prime example of this was the drugs he was so fond of; he was just too weak to break their grip on him.

This weakness, however, made the man undeniably useful.

Mycroft picked his mobile up with a smirk and pressed the number of one of the phone boxes that were on Scott's street. He watched the screens in front of him as Scott's blonde head turned towards the nearest one, he looked around for a moment but then kept walking.

Mycroft loved this method of getting people's attention because it gave them a rough idea of just how powerful he was. He had used it for nearly all of his closest colleagues and Sherlock's 'friends'. He liked it because it gave him an idea of the sort of person they were; if they answered it immediately it suggested someone was curious, a second time suggested someone who was more observant, any more phone boxes and they began to get less useful, less likely to take a break from their normal lives and answer the phone. Or maybe he was just reading too much into it.

Scott walked passed another one as it rang, not even turning his head, just kept his eyes glued to the chewing gum spotted ground. Mycroft laughed as the third phone rang and Scott stopped totally, his head turned toward the phone box; the chuckle faded as Mycroft realised that this was it; the man was going to pick the phone up. He couldn't help feeling disappointed, it wasn't often he got to play this game and when he did he _loved_ drawing it out, watching the subjects body language as it descended into confusion.

Scott looked around and walked forwards into the phone booth, he hesitated, his hand poised above the handset. He looked around again and picked it up, "Er, Hello?"

"Good evening Scott Hooper," Mycroft greeted, "To your right is a black car. Get in it."

"Or what?" The man asked, his voice quivering. "Who is this?"

Mycroft smirked, maybe the man had a back bone after all, "Come now Scott Hooper, must I resort to threatening you?"

"What do you want with me?" he demanded.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, as amusing as it was watching the man squirm it was becoming rather tedious, he didn't have all night, "Looks like I must. If you don't get in the car you will lose everything; your house, your car, your job and even your phone. Not to mention the fact that we know where you darling older sister is," Mycroft told him in a bored tone.

"Oh god, please, not my sister!" The man stuttered, Mycroft turned to Anthea as she listened with a smirk on her face and rolled his eyes at the cliché response , "I'll, I'll do anything,"

"Well you can start by getting in the car," Mycroft suggested dryly with a smirk, the corner of Anthea's mouth lifted as she stared down into her phone.

"Alright... I'll go now then," Scott said. Mycroft hung up and put his mobile in his pocket.

"Will you be accompanying me to the penthouse?" Mycroft asked his assistant, she looked up and shook her brunette head.

"Sorry Sir, I have a date," Anthea replied, Mycroft smiled.

"Lovely, how is your fiancé?" the Holmes brother asked. Anthea frowned, she wasn't sure if he actually cared or not.

"Michael's fine," She replied her smile broadened, "The wedding is in a month,"

"Yes, I noticed you took some time off," Mycroft mused, "Four weeks, honey moon planned?"

"Yes sir, we're going to America," She replied, "New York,"

"Lovely," Mycroft replied, "It is, however, a bit of a stretch letting you go, you're awfully useful,"

"Thank you Mycroft, I do try my best," She replied with a slight smile.

"Anyway, better be off, can't be late,"

"No you can't,"

"See you tomorrow," Mycroft said as he walked out of the door, swinging the umbrella back and forth in his hand. As he turned down the hall he heard Anthea's voice call out to him.

"Would you like to come to the wedding?" She asked in a rushed tone. Mycroft turned on his heel in surprise and swept a deductive glance over her. Her hands here clasped tightly in front of her, her perfectly white teeth biting her lower lip and the way she held her body, was so open and relaxed; all of this pointed to one idea. She considered him a friend: strange, he wasn't sure if he should encourage or stop it. Mycroft debated refusing, after all, he was a busy man and a wedding was an unneeded distraction; however refusing would upset her, judging from the way she bit her lip.

"I would be honoured," Mycroft replied cordially, Anthea smiled and exhaled. "_Relief," _Mycroft noted in surprise, _"Must have been waiting a long time to ask me that. I should have seen it sooner; then again I have been busy, what with Sherlock's current situation."  
><em>  
>"I'll give you all the details tomorrow," She promised before walking down to the other end of the corridor and pushing the door to the stairs open.<p>

One of the most valuable skills Mycroft had was knowing how to make people talk, It was all about the environment you put them in and the way you acted towards them. Scott Hooper was the sort of man who could be easily bought; show him a bag of gold and he would be putty in Mycroft's hands. By surrounding him in an expensive penthouse suite, in the most expensive part of London and offering him what he most wanted in the world, Mycroft would get what he wanted. Scott Hooper was not John Watson, he would betray Sherlock without a second thought.

Mycroft sat down in an expensive leather sofa and examined his umbrella handle pensively. The apartment was open plan with a kitchen in the east corner and a glass dining table behind where he was sitting. The living area included a flat screen TV mounted on the wall, a large leather sofa and a smaller leather chair that faced the west, toward a glass wall that showed a view of the river and the city.

The lift into the flat chimed. Mycroft got to his feet and walked towards the window, steeling his posture and adopting his intimidating stance, his back to the door. He smiled at his reflection in the darkened window; this would be fun.

"So glad you could make it Mr Hooper," Mycroft said, turning on his heel gracefully, Scott's eyes widened as he recognised Mycroft, he inhaled sharply and his hands curled into fists.

"You," He said in a angry, shaking tone.

Mycroft smiled, "Me,"

"You... you were at my house, on Monday!" He stuttered, the anger beginning to be replaced by fear.

"I'm well aware of that," Mycroft assured him as he walked forwards a few paces, the muscles in Hooper's legs tensed as he fought the urge to back away. "Please have a seat," He said, gesturing with his hand and smiling in the most non reassuring way. Scott walked forwards a step, hesitated, looked at Mycroft's raised eyebrow and then walked the final steps towards the sofa and sat down. The man sat straight as a board, all muscles tense as he sat on the edge of the seat, ready to run at any moment.

"Where's my sister?" he demanded, Mycroft tilted his head to the side and smirked with his typical knowing look.

"You ask that under the assumption that I actually have her," Mycroft said dryly, "Which, of course, I don't,"

"You lied?" Scott exclaimed.

"Yes, I did," Mycroft said as he sat down in the leather seat, umbrella leaning against the side of the chair. "Discussing the lies I have told, however, is not the reason you are here,"

"What is it then?" The man demanded, Mycroft rolled his eyes; such impatience.

"I want to offer you a job," Mycroft told him with a faked smile. The colour drained out of Scott's face and his right hand tightened into a fist on his right leg. "_Anger_," Mycroft noted.

"You threatened and kidnapped me so you could offer me a job," Scott spat through gritted teeth. Mycroft restrained himself from grinning; oh, he did love this! "Why didn't you just ask me when you came to my house?"

"Obvious. I don't want Sherlock knowing," Mycroft replied with a raised eyebrow.

"Why?"

"If you could be bothered to pay attention then the answer would be obvious," Mycroft sighed, already tiring of the conversation, "I want you to spy on him,"

Scott sat back against the sofa, his eyes narrowed and a cruel smile spread across his thin lips, "How much will I get? You've seen the man; if he finds out I've been spying on him for you... He might kill me!"

Mycroft stared at Hooper for a long moment, he began chuckling at the terrible attempt at manipulation, "Maybe you aren't the best person for this job after all," He replied in between chuckles. "You don't seem to know Sherlock Holmes at all,"

"What? He _could_!" Scott protested.

"Doubtful, Mr Hooper, very doubtful," Mycroft told him with a smirk.

Scott crossed his arms like a stubborn child, "How much are you going to pay me though?"

Mycroft sighed and handed over a cheque, "If you agree to this, that's yours. If you give me anything useful, well, that will depend on how useful it is,"

Hooper was silent for a while as he stared down at the cheque, "That's a lot of zeros,"

"Quite,"

Hooper exhaled, "I'll work for you,"

Mycroft smiled, "Good, pass me the cheque and I'll sign it,"

After the cheque was signed and phone numbers were exchanged Scott Hooper sat there expectantly, Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Do I just leave now?" Scott asked hesitantly, his hands tapping nervously on his leg.

"Yes, I look forward to working with you Mr Hooper," Mycroft told him with a slight nod, "Good bye,"

"Bye," Scott said hesitantly before getting up and leaving quickly.

The lift doors slid open and Scott got into it, as he looked back over his shoulder at the man with the umbrella he a look of realisation crossed his features.

"I don't even know your name!" he called with his hand between the lift doors so they wouldn't close. "And I'm guessing the one you told me at the house was a lie,"

"Best we keep it that way," Mycroft replied without looking at Hooper. Scott waited for the other man to say anything else before stepping back into the lift.

When the doors finally closed Mycroft exhaled and walked towards the window, he cast his eyes over the city he basically owned and smiled.

John drummed his figures against the wooden desk, it had been six months since he last posted a blog post and he had completely forgotten how to write them. There had been a few reasons why John had stopped writing them; mostly because he life had been reduced back to the pre Sherlock normality that he loathed so much, and secondly because Sherlock wasn't there anymore. He was Sherlock's blogger and now there was no Sherlock, so what was the point in writing?

But Sherlock was still alive, maybe not with him, but he was still out there. It was time the public realised their mistake, they had been so _stupid_, they were so wrapped up in their jealousy of the genius that they had believed anything that would make him seem more human. They totally ignored all of the evidence; Mrs Hudson's husband, all of the criminals that had pleaded guilty after the police had captured them, all of the families that had children returned to them by the detective. They couldn't all be actors and liars.

John rested his head against his palm and tried desperately to think of a title for the post, nothing seemed to work! If he could get this bloody title then maybe the words would flow smoothly, all his thought and ideas would fall onto the page without a moment's hesitation.

A memory grabbed him and filled his mind with the image of those yellow letters drying in the weak morning light, paint still dripping down the red brick, showing London the truth that only a few people had noticed.

It was as if those words had burned through a barrier in his mind, a barrier built up from months of trying to keep his thoughts to himself, the thoughts flowed quickly now, turning into words on the screen. The words flowed like a flood that never ended, John's face remained blank while he wrote; a mask hiding the anger that he really felt. When he had finished he sat back and read it over, fixed any spelling and grammar errors and moved his mouse to hover over the 'post' button. For a moment he hesitated, Harry still hadn't texted him about that meeting with Ella, if he posted this now it would just be fuel for whatever Ella's diagnosis was.

John found he couldn't care less.

He clicked post.

The blogger sat back in his chair and a smile graced his face, that small piece of what had become his normality returning filled his heart with warmth he hadn't felt in ages. Forgetting himself John turned round to say something to Sherlock. The words halted on his tongue when he saw the empty flat and the warmth left him. However It was replaced by anticipation, soon he wouldn't be alone anymore, he would find Sherlock, John didn't care how many cabbies he would have to shoot or maniacs he had to avoid; he would find him.

Sherlock stuck the four pieces of blue tac in the corner of the paper and pressed it against the wall. He had purposefully left this wall blank just in case, he really didn't want to fill it, he wanted it to remain blank, but he had no choice. Sherlock stepped back and reviewed his work; in the centre of the wall there was a white bit of paper with the word '_Wednesday' _written in black sharpie, coming off it were the faces of some of the people he had seen in the warehouse. He would need to contact Mycroft if he wanted the rest of them, which he would, but right now he could do without his meddlesome brother. Hell, like that was going to happen.

There was a knock at the door and The Flatmate walked in, "Tea?" He offered.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he looked at the man closely, that was the first time he had ever offered to make the detective tea. _"Mud on the bottom of his jeans, redder, from the other side of the river. Shirt creased, he's been sat down for a while. Didn't go to get drugs, date? No... unless he picked up the sort of woman that doesn't kiss on the first date and given the conversations he's had with that friend of his I doubt it." _Strange... "What were you doing on the other side of the river?"

The Flat mate's eyes widened then flicked to the left a tiny, tiny bit, _"He's going to lie," _Sherlock noted, "Date,"

The detective smirked, "Come now, we both know that's not true,"

"Fine, I was seeing a... a friend," The Flat Mate replied, still lying. Then it made sense.

"Ah, how much did he offer you?" Sherlock asked, relaxed now that he didn't have to worry about the man spying on him for Moran.

"Wha... what?"

"My brother, Mycroft, how much did he offer you?" Sherlock repeated, irritated now, this man was stopping him from figuring out how to save John _and_ being an idiot about it.

"That was your brother?" he asked in shock, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"The first thing you can tell him is that a man named Moran is planning to attack John," Sherlock replied turning back to the wall. The man was still stood there, "Well go on then!"

"Right..." The Flat Mate said before leaving the room.

Sherlock turned back to the wall and looked at the only woman on the wall. She called herself Peace, no one knew why; she was an assassin whose signature was to leave an olive branch in the hands of her victims. She worried Sherlock, what she had said at the meeting made him think she wasn't loyal to Moran, which made her volatile and unpredictable.

Mycroft got his first update from Scott Hooper a little before midnight the same day. With a glass of whiskey in his hand he opened the text and read the text quickly, dread gathered in his stomach, if they killed John... he had no idea what Sherlock would do. His little brother had one friend, one person who understood him without being asked or expected to, one person who would kill to protect him, if he lost that, Mycroft shuddered as memories of Sherlock five years ago assaulted him. His little brother drunk and despairing at his loneliness, high as a kite and trying to give Mycroft a hug and his face as Mycroft left him in rehab. Mycroft shut his eyes tight and forced the memories.

Mycroft opened his eye and quickly sent a text, he hated texting but it was far too late to rouse his driver.

_Tell me everything Sherlock, as Dr Watson's current protector I have the right to know- MH_

Sherlock replied automatically, obviously Scott had been discovered and his little brother had been waiting for this.

_Protector? He's not precious cargo!-SH_

_Maybe not, but you care about him, that makes him precious and rare. Tell me or I'll pull his protection from level five to level one- MH_

_Moran's planning an attempt on his life so let's keep the protection on level 5... Not that it helps, your lackeys are useless. Also stop the metaphorical 'precious and rare' crap. Besides, Lestrade likes me!-SH _

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the insults.

_His protection will be doubled; I'll send a spy into Moran's ranks to make sure we're updated-MH_

_Acceptable. Make sure that spy is better than my flat mate, he was terrible, I knew he had seen you the moment he asked me if I wanted tea- SH_

_Took you that long? I'll put my best person on the job-MH_

_Bugger off, and She won't be happy-SH_

Mycroft sighed, Sherlock was right, she wouldn't be happy but she was the best; not any random person gets to be assistant to Mycroft Holmes. He sent a text to Anthea, or whatever she was calling herself today.

_Sorry to interrupt but I need you to come in early tomorrow, even if it's inconvenient, it's vitally important, could save lives- MH._

Mycroft put his phone down and stared into the fire, sipping at his drink as he tried to calm his mind. He wasn't like Sherlock, he didn't thrive off adventure and adrenalin; order and calm was what made Mycroft Holmes feel content. Things were starting to spin out of control and that made his restless. With a sigh Mycroft finished his drink and put it on the table next to his chair, he had a busy day tomorrow, even though he wasn't looking forward to, it he needed sleep. He wasn't like his brother; if Mycroft Holmes went without sleep England could fall.

At seven the next morning there was a knock on the door to Mycroft's office and Anthea stepped into the room. Her facial expression was masked but her clothing choices told Mycroft that she was worried; her normally spotless clothes were creased in some places and the outfit didn't seem quite so effortlessly elegant.

"Ah, Anthea, please have a seat," Mycroft smiled, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk.

"I'm Annie today," Anthea told him, her voice as emotionless as her face. Annie; the name was sweet and innocent. Almost a plea to Mycroft, _take pity on me!_ It almost pained him, knowing what he was about to ask her to do.

"Annie, have a seat," He corrected, the name felt bizarre on his tongue; she had been Anthea for so long now. "I asked you here to offer you a job, well, more of a... personal favour for me," Mycroft began, watching her face carefully, her mask didn't betray her and neither did her body language, "Sebastian Moran is planning an attack on the life of Dr. Watson, I can't let that happen, but to be able to stop it I need someone on the inside."

"Please don't ask me to do this Mycroft, please," Annie interrupted in a voice that shook with barely suppressed emotion as he paused for breath. He knew what she was thinking, it was what he told every new employee on their first day; _you always have a choice, it's just the wrong one is heavily discouraged. _"I'm getting married in four weeks, If I spy on him for you I'll have to leave him!"

Mycroft donned his mask and stared at her with cold eyes, totally disregarding what she had said. He _needed _her to do this, "Annie, I would like you to be this spy,"

"Mycroft!" She pleaded, her mask and voice finally breaking. Tears were welling in her eyes and her face was one of absolute misery, her face stayed liked that for five seconds as she tried to get her breathing back under control. After those five seconds had pasted her face relaxed and she reached up to wipe the unshed tears from her eyes, "Is there no one else who can do this?" she asked, her voice back to its emotionless, dead pan, tone.

"You are one of the few people I trust," He told her honestly, "You are the only person I believe can do this, the only person I trust to do this,"

Annie nodded, then she said in a quiet, barely audible tone as she stared at him with her fierce brown eyes, "You would have me leave my fiancé, four weeks before our wedding for an indefinite period, to enter the work place of one of the most dangerous people in the world and spy on him,"

"I know it's a lot to ask, but yes," Mycroft replied. Annie sighed and looked up at him, her eyes hard.

"Who will I be?" she asked finally, her voice quiet. Mycroft smiled and gave her a file.

"Elizabeth Harrington," Mycroft told her, "Everything you need to remember about her is in there,"

"When do I start?" She asked. Annie wasn't stupid enough to ask about what happened to the real Elizabeth Harrington.

"Tomorrow," Mycroft replied, "You can have the rest of the day off with you Fiancé if you wish,"

"He's at work," Anthea told her boss, "Where am I going to be staying while I'm working for Moran?"

"A house near Regents Park, far enough away from Baker Street so it doesn't rouse suspicion but still in a nice area," Mycroft almost kicked himself for saying that; as if the girl cared whether or not the house she would be staying in while she spied on a criminal mastermind was in a nice area or not! "You have an interview with Moran himself tomorrow in Hyde park,"

"What time?" she asked. Mycroft had at least expected a frown, she was going to meet Moran tomorrow; surely that inspired some form of fear?

"In the file,"

Annie nodded, then smiled weakly, "I better get paid double for this," She joked.

"Don't worry, you will," Mycroft promised, "Now what were the times for that wedding?"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Hey guys, thanks for reading! This chapter is so much longer than the others, took me ages to write and editing was a bitch! xD **

**So because I'm an idiot I had no idea how to see how many people had favourited/alerted this Fic, I figured it out the other day and I would like to say a massive THANK YOU to all the people who alerted or favorited, it means a lot guys! **

**So I got tired towards the end of ending so if you see any errors please put them in a review so I can correct them when I got back over it at a later date. Also, later on in this fic I use the name 'Elizabeth' when Anthea is acting and 'Anthea' when she isn't; I just wanted to make that clear because I confused myself at points!**

**Thanks for reading, don't forget to review and DFTBA!**

_7 days before_.

John pushed open the doors of Costa Coffee and stepped into the darkened, crowded space. He joined the overly long queue and cursed himself for thinking it was a good idea to meet Lestrade at lunch hour on a week day; why the hell didn't he just invite him round to Baker Street? After queuing for far longer than seemed necessary he walked to the only free table at the back of the room.

John took out the tea bag out of his mug and poured milk into the no doubt terrible tea he was about to drink; tea from chains was always bad, you couldn't beat a homemade cuppa in his opinion. John needed it thought, he was going to tell Lestrade about Sherlock being alive; after all, the detective might not admit it but John knew Sherlock considered the DI a friend. Even if he didn't know his first name.

John looked up and saw Lestrade walking past the window, he watched as the DI pushed open the door and joined the back of the queue. Lestrade's eyes flicked over the unfamiliar faces until they rested on John, he grinned and raised a hand in a lazy, half wave; John smiled and raised hand in return. After queuing for a bit Lestrade joined John at his table with a mug of coffee, a doughnut and a box of sandwiches.

"Hullo John!" he greeted with a smile, "You alright?"

"Fine," John smiled, "You?"

"Yeah, just wrapped up a case," Greg replied, grinning, "Bloody hard case that was, the one about that mental artist, I thought we might have had to ask you to come and look at it, thankfully we got a tip off,"

John snorted, "Why me? I barely did anything on those cases, Sherlock only had me do something when he wanted to go off on his own!"

"We both know that's not true!" he laughed, "You were far more useful to Sherlock in those cases than I ever was, he _liked _hearing your theories, even if he did shoot them full of holes afterwards,"

John shrugged, "I'm still pointless on my own,"

"Whatever, I reckon you could solve one of those cases on your own if you put your mind to it," Greg said, pointing a sandwich at him. "So how come you invited me here, you said there was something you wanted to tell me?"

John pursed his lips and sighed, _show time_. He decided to copy Martha Holmes and try and make sure Lestrade wouldn't interrupt, "Look, Greg, what I'm about to say is going to make me sound mental but I need you to just listen, alright?"

"Yeah, sure," Lestrade shrugged, only looking slightly curious.

"Sherlock... Sherlock isn't dead," John struggled, Greg's face turned soft and sympathetic and he drew breath, "No, you promised!" John warned firmly, pointing his figure at the police officer. Greg closed his mouth and gestured for him to continue, "I've been gathering information for the past five weeks and there's far too many loose ends, Sherlock can't be dead, Sherlock _isn't _dead," John grabbed a folded up still from his jean pocket and smoothed it out on the table in front of him, Greg made eye contact with the doctor before looking down at the picture; it was the image of 'Sherlock' being wheeled away to the hospital, except it was clearly not Sherlock. "Look, that's not him! Sherlock must have jumped off the gurney, hidden somewhere."

Greg's eyes went wide and his mouth opened and closed a few times, "No, it can't be, did you get these off the internet? They must be photo shopped or something," he said shaking his head.

"I got these off Mycroft, do you really think he would photo shop them?" John replied, Lestrade put his tongue in his cheek and shoved the photo back towards John.

The man was silent for a long time, chewing his food thoughtfully, finally after long minuets of tense silence Greg opened his mouth to speak. "How are you... feeling, knowing he's alive?"

John thought for a moment. He had hoped that knowing that Sherlock was alive would free him and let him act just a tiny bit more normally, but it hadn't; knowing Sherlock was out there, unprotected and alone, just made John want to scour the streets of London and find him. It hadn't removed the loneliness, far from it, it had just made it louder, gave it more to say, more to hurt John with: _'Sherlock may still alive but he doesn't want _you_! You don't mean anything to him, you never did, and he doesn't need you! _Alone_ is what he has, alone protects him, not some half-wit, failed soldier!'_

"I don't know. It's a relief, knowing that he's alive, it's got rid of some of the guilt; I felt terrible, I was his best friend, his _only_ friend, and even I wasn't able to save him. But I'm just so confused, why hasn't he come back already, why didn't he tell me he was alive! I've been grieving for six months and then I find out that it was all for nothing, that he's still alive and _worse_ that people I'm close to knew! Molly _knew_ Greg; she could have told us at his birthday instead of just sitting there silent while we made all those bloody speeches! She knows where he is, but she won't tell me or give me his mobile number! I just want see him again; find out why he did it. " John said in a rush, all his feeling flowing out in a garble. Greg sat there though it all, nodding in the right places and just listening.

"Why won't she tell you?" he asked when he was sure John had finished.  
>John sighed in frustration, "She says I'm in danger! Molly's not the only one saying that though, I contacted the Homeless network and they gave me this," he reached into his pocket and chucked the folded up slip of paper down onto the desk.<p>

Lestrade unfolded it and read the scrawl quickly, when he had finished he folded it back up and gave it to John, "Do you want police protection?"

John winced, "God no, I've already got protection from Mycroft and I think he wants to put the flat under surveillance,"

"If you've got protection from Mycroft you'll be fine, his is the best," Lestrade told him, John raised an eyebrow.

"How would you know?" John asked with a smirk.

"I've known Mycroft and Sherlock for almost five years now, I've had to be put under protection a few times," Greg replied, he frowned for a moment "The first time you met Mycroft did he kidnap you?"

"Yeah, he still does," John chuckled.

"I swear it's the only bit of fun he gets," Lestrade said, his laugh joining John's. "How did Sherlock do it then? You have figured it out, right?"

John nodded, "Molly told me he fell into a laundry bin, you know, the ones they have outside every hospital; he must have filled it with shock absorbers or something. Sherlock had a truck parked in front of where he landed so that the cameras couldn't see the impact, plus he had me stand in a specific place so the ambulance station blocked my view. Then he just got into position on the ground while I was knocked over by that cyclist, he had the homeless network working for him as well, they must have put fake blood around him and pretended to be Doctors,"

"Wow," Lestrade said quietly, rather impressed "And he set this all up in, what, hour?"

John frowned, "I'm not sure, he took a cold case before; it was about a man called Henry Fishguard, the police thought he had performed suicide, but he hadn't. I have no idea how long he's been planning this,"

Greg nodded, "Wait till Anderson hears this, he's been a git the past six months, Donovan too," he said with a scowl.

John's gaze snapped up to Lestrade, "Don't say anything yet," his tone was quick and firm.

"I was joking John. Mycroft will need to sort something out, the press will be all over this when we find Sherlock," Greg replied, then frowned, "We are going to find him, right?"

John sat back in his seat and folded his arms, "I want to but there's no point, he won't come back until he wants to,"

"Well then we drag him back," Lestrade shrugged, "You figured out how he survived, why don't you try finding him?"

John thought for a moment, and then something clicked. Sherlock had said himself, _'all that matters_ _to me is the work, without that my brain rots!' _The detective wouldn't be able to go six months without one case; he would have been bored by the second day! He frowned and looked up at the DI "Using Sherlock's rating system, how hard was that case?"  
>Lestrade pondered that for a moment, "8, without that tip off the killer would still be... oh!"<p>

"Yeah,"

"You think that was him?" Lestrade demanded, his eyes wide with amazement.

"Could be, have there been more tip offs than normal?" John asked. It would make sense for Sherlock to do this, but it was risky, even for him, he could have been discovered far too easily; a tracked number, someone recognising hand writing or being recognised while he was on the streets.

Lestrade frowned, "Thinking about it there has, and some of them have been sent to different officers phones. The latest was sent to Donovan's phone,"

"Withheld number?"

"Untraceable number," Lestrade snorted, "How do you think he managed that one?"

John frowned for a moment, who would be able to get Sherlock an untraceable phone? John snorted bitterly as the answer crossed his mind, "Who do you think got him the phone,"

Lestrade looked confused, then it dawned on him, "Mycroft,"

"That man's watched me try and figure it out for five weeks, I bet he knew all along!" John spat.

"I'd be worried if he didn't," Lestrade snorted.

John scowled, "I'll ask Mycroft where he is, he owes it to me to tell me the dick head,"

Lestrade was silent for a moment, then he asked hesitantly, "Does that mean that Richard Brook really was Moriarty?"

John's head snapped up, glaring, he was already angry he really wished Lestrade hadn't said that "What, did you actually believe what the papers said?" he demanded, his face livid, "Because if so you've really gone down in my opinion, mate!"

"John, can you please remember he was my friend too?" Lestrade snapped, John mumbled an apology, "I didn't believe the papers my team does! Their constantly going on about how we were all fooled by him, Donovan and Anderson especially"

"Donovan's a bitch and Anderson is an idiot, and the fact that they are stupid enough to believe the fairy tales the papers thought up just proves it," John snapped.

"So what did happen to Moriarty? I thought that with him free to do his business crime rates would soar, but they haven't, unsolved yeah, but not crime in general," Lestrade frowned as he lifted his doughnut to take a bit from it.

"He shot himself in the head," John said, his tone dead pan.

"What?" Lestrade exclaimed, his mouth falling open, doughnut still in his hand "When?"

"On the roof of St. Barts before The Fall, there's CCTV footage." John told him bitterly, "Moriarty was talking to him before he jumped, that maniac probably decided that the world isn't grand enough for the both of them and, I don't know, did _something, _to make Sherlock jump then blew his brains out,"

"Well at least this 'danger' you're in has nothing to do with him," Greg said, "Being covered in Sem-tex is probably better being a once in a life time thing,"

John smiled slightly, "For most people it _is _a once in a life time thing,"

Lestrade chuckled a bit then sobered, "We shouldn't laugh at that, not after 'The Great Game',"

"No , I suppose we shouldn't," John replied weakly.

Sherlock would have laughed with him about that.

The two men finished their food and drinks, chatting inanely about anything, everything, staying away from certain topics with well practised ease. John didn't quite know why they were doing that still, after all Sherlock was alive, it's not like he was going to get depressed now was it? In the end he put it down to habit, conversations had been slightly superficial for almost six months while everyone treated him like an emotional time bomb; they had all been convinced he was going to have a nervous breakdown or something.

When they were finished they donned their coats and said their goodbyes, as normal they promised that they would meet up again next week ('at the pub or something') even though in the end something would come up and they would have to cancel. They walked back along the street in a barely comfortable silence until John reached the tube station and said goodbye, Lestrade replied then carried on down the road.

As John stood on the smelly, overcrowded and stuffy train he got a text from Harry:

_Your appointment with Ella is next Thursday at 12, be there, please!_ –_ Harry xxx_

John just sighed and put his phone back inside his pocket, already dreading it.

Elizabeth Harrington brushed a stray piece of brunette hair behind her ear and fiddled with the clasp on her red canvas bag nervously, the buttons that decorated it catching in the sunlight. The cold February wind cut through her worn leather jacket that had seen better days as she opened the bag and took out a scrap of paper with her left hand, her were nails painted a bright, sunshine yellow: _Wednesday 6th of February, 12 o'clock, Hyde Park, pick a bench, any bench. Best wishes, your new boss xxx. _Anthea bit her lip, last night Mycroft had told her how dangerous this man was and he had used _her_ name when he did it, her _real_ name; he was deadly serious about this.

The sound of heavy boots on gravel came from her right and Elizabeth's head snapped up. For a moment she had no idea what expression to use, she had been Anthea for much longer than any other persona; so much so that her real personality had began to leach through, in the end she bit her lip and looked curiously towards to man walking towards her.

The man approaching her wasn't anything special; his hair wasn't styled, just cut neatly, he had military boots on that were still slightly fashionable and a leather jacket over a dark, forest green top, his eyes were hidden behind cheap Ray-Ban imitations. He didn't look like a crazy sniper; but then you wouldn't want to if you were going to walk the streets of London and talk to normal people, now would you?

"Hello Mrs Harrington," the man greeted as he sat down on the bench, much too close for Elizabeth to be comfortable, removing his sun glasses as he did.

"Um, hi?" she replied hesitantly, "Are you my, erm, my new employer?"

"Sebastian Moran," he told her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Pleasure to meet you,"

"Thanks," Elizabeth replied hesitantly as she shook his hand. Moran took out a packet of cigarettes, Embassy, and lit a cigarette; he took a long drag on it and slowly exhaled.

"So... you want to work for me," Moran began after another drag on the cigarette.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied with a hesitant smile, "My brother, he works for you, told me there was an office job going and I thought 'Well, that's an ideal job for me!' Rob's told me all about your business and how you give cancer patients a final wish and all that, ever since I was a little girl I've wanted to help people!"

Moran chuckled darkly, "I'm afraid your brother's told you a bit of a lie there, my dear,"

"Oh... isn't it cancer patients?" Elizabeth frowned. Anthea noted the cruel glint in his dark green eyes and the way his smile looked a bit too fake, a bit too sharp; Elizabeth, however, wouldn't so she kept her face stupid and curious.

"Tell me, Miss Harrington, have you ever killed someone?" Moran asked with a smirk. His dark tone made the hair on Anthea's neck stand on end and dread coil in her stomach. She frowned, and gave a nervous laugh, her fake smile faltering for a moment.

Elizabeth Harrington was the youngest child of five, average GCSE results, not overly cleaver, no longer term partner or boyfriend; she was a pretty boring, average person. Aside from the fact that her father used to take her hunting and she happened to be a damn good shot. It was no wonder Moran had hired her oldest brother (who too happened to be a damn good shot) and was now after her, few people now a day's knew how to fire a gun outside of the military; soldiers weren't the easiest people to manipulate into becoming criminals and they were a liability if they managed it. This wasn't America, guns were illegal, very few people ever touched one, let alone fire one.

"Of course I haven't!" Elizabeth exclaimed in a high nervous tone; the seriousness of her situation finally becoming clear to her, she frowned "Was that a joke?"

Moran chucked, reached under his leather jacket and took a gun out of its holster, "Nope," he replied, popping the 'p', "Here's what you have to do to get the job; see that old man over there, the one feeding the ducks," Elizabeth nodded, "Shoot him. I know you can do it, your brother did it and he told me you can shoot just as well as he can,"

"You're joking right?" Elizabeth replied with a hysterical bark of a laugh, Moran shook his head, "I'm not going to kill someone over a job! And Andrew wouldn't kill anyone!"  
>Moran rolled his eyes, "I'll give you a little extra incentive then shall I?" He smirked and looked down at her chest; Elizabeth followed his gaze down and saw a red dot hovering over her heart. She took a shuddering breath in and blinked rapidly; trying to encourage tears to start falling.<p>

"Ugh, don't cry, crying is annoying," Moran spat, "Just shoot the oldie with the ducks before I get bored!"

"What if I miss? It's been a while since I shot anything," Elizabeth asked, her voice high and quivering with the not-quite-there tears.

Anthea knew she wouldn't miss, she knew how to shoot a gun, but it would look a bit suspicious if Elizabeth Harrington shot the man without any hesitation. Anthea really didn't want to kill this man, she hadn't done this to kill an old man who probably had a wife, children, grandchildren while he fed the ducks, she had done this to spy on Moran as one of his employees; this wasn't, to put it plainly, in the job description.

"You die," Moran smirked, "Now as nice as this chat is... Kill the fucking man,"

Elizabeth took the gun for Moran's hands and clicked off the safety. Anthea stopped acting and aimed the gun, her hands as still as a surgeons, after a moment hesitation she let a short breath out and pressed the trigger. Gunshot pieced the air as it the weapon bucked in her hands and the man by the ducks fell forwards into the pond, blood from a wound in his neck staining the water red. Anthea couldn't help wrinkling her nose in annoyance; she had been aiming for the head.

"Someone's going to have heard that," She said hesitantly. '_I'm so sorry!' _Anthea cried in her head as she watched the blood spread across the water, turning the water a rusty, red colour.  
>"That's the idea!" Moran laughed, "Meet me at Waterloo Bridge when you've lost the police!" he said before walking off.<p>

Anthea looked down at the gun in her hands, growled in frustration, and clicked the safety back on. She slipped it into the back of her skirt where the loose jacket would hide it and began running towards the exit of the park. Once she was outside of the wrought iron gates she heard someone call out, Anthea glanced to her left and saw two police officers running towards her. She swore and began to run down the street, pulling out her phone as she did so, pressing one on her speed dial.

"Mycroft I'm being chased by police, do something!" She spat as she ran, Anthea knew it would slow her down but she knew that eventually the police would catch her; she would rather not have to explain to Moran how she managed to get out of custody. She had plausibility while she was on the streets.

"What did you do?" Mycroft asked, a hint of amusement in his tone but otherwise deadly serious; if she was with him at that moment Anthea knew he would be smirking.

"Unimportant. Just get them off my tail." she snapped before hanging up. She glanced over her shoulder, just quick enough to see how far away they were; they were just at the end of the street and gaining fast. She hoped her hair had hidden her face, the last thing she needed was being recognised later.

Coming up on her left was an alley, she ran across the road and down the alley, ignoring the cries of: "Stop! Police!" form her pursuers. The alley opened out onto a busy high street, Anthea ducked into a Starbucks and took a seat by the window.

The two police that were following her split up and began searching through the crowd for her; barging people out the way without apologies and stretching their heads above the crowd like meercats. Suddenly they answered their radios at the same time, made eye contact and walked back to the alley. Anthea ducked her head as they passed the cafe window, pretending to look at an advert. Her phone buzzed in her pocket:

_There, you're invisible, any incriminating footage is being destroyed. Good luck. – MH_

Anthea smiled and looked up at the clock; it had been half an hour since she'd first met with Moran. She realised she would have to wait for a bit, if she arrived back too quickly it would look suspicious, Anthea left her table and went to the queue to get a drink.

When she was sat down again she took out her phone, she might be under cover but that wouldn't stop her from working on the projects she had been doing before all of this: one of them was tracking John Watson's movements. He was currently at the clinic, she brought up the patients he would be seeing today and checked them out; nothing suspicious. She sent that off and almost immediately her phone buzzed as she got a text.

_Annie, please focus on one thing at a time, I knew I should have taken that phone off you. –MH_

Anthea smirked and began typing.

_I have time to kill; besides, you shouldn't have put all those extras on it if you didn't want me using them! – Anthea_

_Those 'extra's' are there for when you are working with me, not when you are undercover. Why aren't you doing something? –MH_

_If Elizabeth had been trying to escape the police it would have taken her a good deal longer than fifteen minutes. You've read the file, she's pathetic! How's she holding up, dissolved into a nervous wreck yet? You should get on with _your_ work, besides we both know you hate texting –Anthea_

_She's not pathetic, she's normal; there is a difference, albeit a small one. She's fine, staying at a safe house at the moment, far away from Moran –MH_

Anthea didn't reply, just smirked down at her phone and took a drink of her coffee. Her mind began to wander, away from the relative safety of the task at hand to her personal life; the life that shouldn't exist when she was on the job.

She wondered how well Michael had slept last night, he often moaned that when she wasn't there he couldn't sleep; she knew she hadn't slept a wink last night. Anthea had told him that she was on a business trip, told him it shouldn't last more than a week that she couldn't be sure. Though because of this Mycroft had to recall the security that had been set up around her house for her, to make it look like she had actually gone. Michael didn't know about the security of course, but Anthea would sleep easier if she knew he was defended in some way.

Anthea worried constantly about her fiancé. He didn't know what she did for a living, didn't know that if Mycroft became public knowledge she would be targeted by terrorist groups, he didn't know that the ones that already knew about them, like Moran, already did. Her job might not seem as dangerous as running round London chasing after criminals like Sherlock did, but being close to the most powerful man in Britain meant that she was constantly at risk; maybe even more than the royal family. The only thing that protected Mycroft and herself was his anonymity; no one knew what big brother looked like, that kept her safe. There was one person, however, who knew who he was, knew what he looked like, knew his weaknesses, knew Mycroft for the man he was instead of the position he held, and that person was James Moriarty, but he was dead now, right?

Wrong.

Moriarty was an idea and you can't kill ideas, especially when ideas have followers. Moran shared Moriarty's idea; he wanted to rule the crime world, and now he was. Moriarty had known all about Mycroft, no doubt he had shared all of that information with Moran the moment he decided to kill himself. Moriarty had been predictable, all he wanted was an end to his boredom; life was just a game to him. Moran was dangerous, he was ambitious and that ambition made him unpredictable, Moran knew how to make Britain fall, he could expose Mycroft!

Yet for some reason that didn't matter to Mycroft; all that mattered to him at the moment was watching John Watson piece together the flimsy clues Sherlock had left behind, drawing attention to himself as he did. That's why she was here, spying on Moran, not because Mycroft wanted to keep himself and the rest of the people who worked for him safe, but because he didn't want his little brother to go without his only friend for longer than necessary.

Anthea wanted to be angry at him for that, but she couldn't. For a start because that was why she wanted to bring Moran down, to protect Michael, and secondly because it just made him _human. _Mycroft was an extraordinary man, but he was just that; _a man._ No matter how many times he told himself that caring wasn't an advantage he would always care, at least for his family.

Anthea sighed and drained the last of her coffee, she shrugged her coat on and left the shop, she had been sat there staring into her coffee for almost fifteen minutes, which should have been enough time for Moran to get bored. She got the tube to Waterloo and quickly made her way towards the embankment.

There was a seating area under the bridge and she saw a familiar looking figure in a leather jacket. Mentally she made the shift from Anthea to Elizabeth and adjusted the way her bag was on her shoulder as she walked, her head looking round suspiciously, as if she thought she was being watched.

Moran was sat on a bench and he rose as she made her way towards him, his arms folded across his chest cockily and a sneer on his face. "Thirty minutes, I hope you ran fast," Moran smirked. Elizabeth bit her lip and nodded, "Have you got my gun? I hope you didn't throw it down; that was my Browning from when I was in the army,"

Elizabeth undid her jacked and pulled the gun out of the waist band of her skirt; Moran smirked and licked his lips as he took it back.

"Sexy," He smirked, Elizabeth just glared, silently fuming, "I bet you have questions, if you don't you're either a psychopath who has no problem with killing elderly men or an idiot."

Elizabeth shot a look over at a homeless woman who sat on a bench a ways from them, "Are you sure this is the right place to be discussing something like this," she asked hesitantly.

Moran snorted, "She's not a problem, been paying her off for a while now so she doesn't talk to the police, she may look poor but she's got enough money to be living in Chelsea by now,"

"Oh," Elizabeth said, biting her lip again. "Who was he?"

"No one,"

_'Ask Mycroft later,' _she noted, "Alright then, why did I have kill him,"

Moran grinned, "Here's the _best _bit, the _punch line_," he paused for dramatics, his overly white teeth glinting in the sunlight like polished bone, _"You didn't have to!"_

Cold dread mixed with disbelief threatened to choke Anthea, not only did she kill for this but she had actually killed without a reason? She was starting to feel as if she was no better than anyone on Moran's side of this invisible war, "What do you mean? I had a gun pointed to my head!"

_"Wrong!"_ Moran said in a high tone, he was laughing now, dancing round the bench area like a mad man, "I love this bit, I love this bit, I _LOVE _this bit!" he muttered with a Cheshire cat grin. He stopped dancing suddenly, his grin falling off his face; he dug around in his pocket for a moment and pulled out what looked like a metal pen. He pressed the bottom and pointed it at her chest, "A laser; the bane of teachers all over Britain,"

Elizabeth wanted to retch, "You mean in had a choice?" she asked in a strangled voice.

The grin was back now, "That's something we've borrowed;you _always _have a choice, making the wrong one is just _discouraged!"_

Anthea's blood ran cold, that was _Mycroft's_ saying, not his, to hear it come out of his mouth... it made her want to kill him. What's worse was that it meant that his side knew more than hers, Mycroft might have a spy working for him! A sense of purpose filled her then, their side having a spy didn't matter now, because now her side did, Mycroft could sniff it out before they even had a chance to tell Moran. She was the spy and she was going to do her best, not just so that Michael would be safe, but so Mycroft would be one step ahead of them.

"Where did you get that from?" Elizabeth asked bitterly, Anthea's anger seeping through her act "Movie or something?"

"Careful Harrington, you may have passed initiation but you aren't part of the team yet," Moran warned with a waggled figure, "We've adopted the words from a branch of the government that the population doesn't know about. This is where you decide Harrington, do you want to become part of a war, a _revolution_ or stay boring? Do want the Red Pill or the Blue Pill?"

Anthea's blood was roaring in her ears; they were calling this a _revolution!_ This was anything but a revolution, this was cold blooded crime! These fucking psychopaths, these maniacs, these freaks! Anthea kept these feelings off her face, kept away by the mask of unease she was wearing as Harrington, "Depends, am I going to die if I choose Blue? Surely I know too much,"

"Honey, you don't know a fraction of the stuff I'm working on," Moran sneered, "But if you feel that's a better option than letting you go free we'll be happy to take it on board; my company loves to know what their new employees think,"

"And what exactly is you're company, what does it do? Seeing as the cancer patients was a lie," Elizabeth asked, maybe a bit too forceful, Moran's eyes widened with surprise.

"I'm a consulting criminal, the only one in the world now that Moriarty's gone. People come to me with crimes they want done and I set one of my employees onto the job." He said in a matter of fact tone, a strange light entering his eyes when he mentioned Moriarty, Elizabeth's eyes went wide in shock, but he continued, "You're a lot braver than I thought," he sneered, "Was before just some sort of act?"

Elizabeth shook her head and narrowed her eyes, "Sorry if I surprised you, I just don't normally react well to being threatened with death if I don't kill someone, chased across London by the police then told it was all for nothing,"

"I _like_ you!" Moran laughed manically, "I thought you only had the personality for some sort of secretary but now I'm not so sure..." Moran tapped his figure against his chin, "I thought you were boring and ordinary, but you're not are you? You're _clever!" _

_"No, just a bad actor," _Anthea thought bitterly, "I'm not really, I didn't do very well at school, didn't go to university..." She trailed off, acting bashful from the compliments.

"No, no, no, no, no," He repeated while grinned, grabbing her by the shoulders and lowering himself to her eye level his crazed dark green eyes eyes searching her face, looking desperate "Do you know who Sherlock Holmes is?"

Elizabeth snorted incredulously, "Is there anyone in this city who doesn't know who he is?"

"Probably not," Moran shrugged, turning thoughtful for a moment, it faded, replaced by the desperation he had shown moments before, "Anyway he's one type of clever; the genius, the scientist, the philosopher. There are other types though, you and me, we're clever, we _see _things for what they are; John Watson is like us. We work with the genius' because they sometimes miss things, they get over complicated, and they need us to point it out what they missed; all geniuses are nothing without an audience after all! Look at Sherlock Holmes, we took away his audience, Moriarty and I, set them against him using well crafted lies; he fell quickly enough! You're just like me!"

Anthea shivered in disgust, Moran frowned for a moment, feeling the shiver, "You're right," She said in a breathy tone. The frown fell off his face, replaced with a grin that actually reached his watery blue eyes, she grinned back, trying to look excited "We are alike,"

"So..." He began straightening out and offering her his hand a crooked smile spreading across his face, "Red Pill or Blue Pill,"

"Red. Always,"

Elizabeth took his hand, he meant for it to be a way to lead her away but she turned it into a hand shake. "I look forward to working for you," She said with a grin, "What will I be doing though?"

"You're going to be my personal assistant," Moran said with a smirk. _'Brilliant' _Anthea thought bitterly, _'Looks like I'm always going to be a PA,' _"I wanna be a genius, the new Moriarty, but better, you're going to be my audience,"

"I trust there will be a healthy payslip included in that," Elizabeth said with a raised eye brow.

"Of course," Moran grinned, "Accompany me to lunch?"

"Sure why not, haven't got much to lose," she replied bitterly.

"Oh Elizabeth," Moran smirked, "_Everyone_ has something to lose,"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey, thanks for reading! I'm sorry for the late update, I would like to make excuses about my exams and stuff but to be honest, I've just been really lazy for the past few weeks. In all seriousness though I have got a lot of exams coming up so my updates aren't going to be as regular as they have been, sorry. Also I've been meaning to mention that the theories used in this fic aren't mine, they have been thought out by the wonderful person who runs the 'finalproblem' tumblr, you should check it out! And while you do that feel free to follow me at imguildingthelily(dot)tumblr, I'm a bit of a late comer to tumblr but you'll get updates about my writing and if you wanted you could prompt something! DFTBA and don't forget to review xD**

The cold wind buffeted John as he stood gazing over the edge of St. Bart's roof. People passed on the street below him, totally unaware of the battle field that they walked through; John could see it though, the height he was at just made it clearer. A man pushed passed a woman in a bright red, expensive looking coat, reaching into her coat pocket and taking something out as she stumbled; money and substance exchanged hands in a secluded alley; and police sirens drifted on the wind, the noise so common it barely even registered.

This was the last thing Sherlock would have seen before Falling, John realised. This was the last thing he would have seen as Sherlock Holmes, the last thing before having to don whatever mask he had to. Strangely John knew he wouldn't have minded; the detective would have stood here deducing the ordinary people below him or making sure the plan would work while he waited for John to arrive.

John shook his head and smiled slightly, he needed to focus; he was here for a reason, not so he could speculate the thoughts going through his friends head. Sherlock must have had a reason for choosing this building, something about this building was crucial for his plan. As John looked around he could see quite a few things that would make it useful; it had the ambulance building and bus stop that hid the impact site from CCTV; it was a good 14m, do there was no question of the height not being enough to kill and person; and there was good road access for him to make his getaway.

There was one other thing though, one that hadn't crossed John's mind before today. This was the build where they had first met, it was fitting that it would also be the place where they would say good bye. John shook his head, no, that couldn't be it, that would have been sentimental on Sherlock's part; Sherlock Holmes didn't do sentiment.

The wind hit John again, but this time slightly stronger and he realised how easily he could just let himself fall, to copy what Sherlock had done eight months ago; to step forwards into empty air, to fall freely and then smack into the pavement below. But Sherlock hadn't really done that, had he? Sherlock had faked it, cleverly faked it, if John stepped into open air he wouldn't fall into a bin full of shock absorbers; he would fall into oblivion.

John stepped back onto the flat surface of the roof quickly, trying to put as much space as possible between him and the edge. When he stood in the middle of the roof he sighed and let out a long, shaking breath. He had often contemplated suicide after Afghanistan, and again in the months just after the fall, but he had never stood on the very brink; when one move would have him ending his own life.

The adrenalin made his pulse race in a way he hadn't felt since Sherlock fell.

As John waited for his pulse to slow he looked up at the dark, stormy looking sky and sighed; it looked like it was going to rain soon, and he didn't have an umbrella. John turned and began to walk back to the door that lead back into the hospital when a thought struck him: Sherlock had thrown his phone down before he jumped, could it still be there?

John turned back to face the other side of the roof and thought for a moment; there wasn't really much point in looking for it, after all, it had been out here for over eight months so it probably didn't work anymore, and it's not like it was important or anything, it was just a phone.

And yet John found himself walking back towards the edge of the roof and looking round half heartedly. After a few minutes of looking John put his hands in his pockets, he was about to walk about to give up and walk back when he noticed something in the corner of the roof. He walked over and picked up the mobile, there didn't seem to be any damage and the overhang where the two sides of the roof looked like it had kept it out of the elements. He held down the on button but unsurprisingly it didn't turn on, maybe it hadn't been rained on but it had gone through a British winter; it had probably frozen.

As John turned the phone over in his hands he wondered why the police hadn't found it; he might not doubt the competence of the police as much as Sherlock did, but surely if it had only taken him a few minutes to find even Anderson's team could do it. Maybe someone had ensured it stayed there, perhaps Sherlock, or maybe the person who had moved Moriarty's body; John had no idea.

John sighed and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket, there wasn't much point standing in the cold, speculating when he could just go home, charge it up (hope it turns on) and find out. But as John opened the door and walked down the metal grate steps he realised he didn't want to go home yet. John supposed he could visit Molly, after all he had intended on just taking her to lunch without any ulterior motive, but right now he doubted Molly would want to see him; it was too soon after the lunch failure the other day.

John pulled open the glass double doors that lead out onto the street; he walked towards the edge of the pavement and flagged down a cab. They might be expensive but his leg was beginning to hurt again; he couldn't be bothered to walk to the nearest tube station. The black car slowed until the back door was level with the doctor and he opened it and got in.

"Chantry cemetery please," John said to the cabbie as he clipped his seatbelt on.

When the cab pulled up in front of the entrance to the cemetery, John got out and paid. As the cab pulled away he turned for to face the black, wrought iron gates and sighed; what was he doing here? Sherlock wasn't here, Sherlock had never been here, he was alive and these places were for the dead. But he wanted to talk to Sherlock and he couldn't contact him, so talking to the headstone would have to suffice. John opened the gates and walked along the gravel path towards Sherlock's grave feeling like a fraud, he passed all these other people who really had lost someone they loved and here he was; the fake, he hadn't lost anyone, he didn't deserve to be here.

John stepped off the gravel path and made his way towards the edge of the graveyard, he came to a stop under the yew tree that marked Sherlock's grave and looked down at the black marble.

As John stood in front of the headstone, his hands still in his pockets, the left one holding the mobile loosely, he felt a smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock wasn't dead, he was alive, John would see his best friend again and they would be able to go back to how things used to be; he was so much luckier than anyone else in this place.

John licked his lips, he wasn't a big fan of talking to graves, but he had to say something this time. "I told you before you... Fell, that only you could be that clever and knowing that you faked it all," John paused and shook his head, "It just proves it. Only you could be brilliant enough to pull this off, to not be dead, only you could have fooled everyone, only you. I hate that you did it and I don't know why you did it, but I do know that Moriarty had a hand in it. That doesn't make it right though, you should have told me, I've spent eight months in mourning and then I find out it was a lie," John shook his head, "look, just promise me something Sherlock, come home, I don't care how long it takes you, just come home."

John laughed, sometimes he wondered if maybe Sarah was right, he did spend too much time surrounded by the memories of Sherlock. He tried to imagine life without those memories, life without Sherlock, but he couldn't. It was like trying to imagine life without being able to see; he could do it but he didn't want to. The doctor sighed: he needed to get a girl friend.

"Come home soon Sherlock," John said, biting his lip and nodding, the he added with a smirk, "Though watch out, because I am going to fucking punch you in the face,"

Anthea forced a laugh at what Moran had said and turned back to the company issue Iphone he had given her, letting her smile fade. She had been working for him for almost three days now and slowly but surely it was becoming easier for her to lie, to pretend she found the jokes funny; slowly she was settling into becoming Elizabeth Harrington.

Moran put his muddy military boots on the desk and took out his own phone out. He had nothing planned for this morning, just three hours to relax and 'plan', he had asked her to stay for a while, but Anthea had no idea why.

"Can you attend a meeting on Wednesday?" she asked when she had finished reading an email.

"No, clear Wednesday, didn't I say yesterday?" Moran snapped. As soon as the words had left his mouth a woman burst into the room, her breath coming in pants and her bone while hair falling in wisps from her bun. Anthea automatically stiffened; out of all Moran's employees this woman, this assassin, Peace; she was the one who terrified her the most. "What?" Moran barked, glaring at her, "Don't you know how to knock?"

"Its John Watson sir," Peace said in between pants. Anthea's eyes went wide; what the hell had that man gotten himself into now? "He... he's written a blog post,"

Moran raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing across his face, "That it?"

Peace glared at him through lilac contact lenses, "Turn on the news," she told him bitterly.

Anthea grabbed the remote and turned the flat screen on that hung on the white wall opposite Moran's desk. BBC news was on and sure enough one of the headlines scrolling along the bottom of the screen read: _Sherlock Holmes: fake or genius? _Anthea resisted the urge to sigh; this was not good.

"Turn it off," Moran snapped, Anthea raised the remote. Peace shot a warning look at her and she paused, glancing between the two criminals; they were both glaring at her and she realised she would have to choose the lesser of the two. Anthea pressed the off button and lowered the remote, not meeting Peace's harsh gaze.

"You haven't even-" Peace began but Moran cut her off, his green eyes sharp and angry.

"_When_did he post this?" He yelled, swinging his feet off the desk and standing, "Tell me now or you _never_walk again!"

"Wednesday," Peace replied timidly. Anthea watched them carefully from where she sat as she tapped her pen against her left thumb; Peace looked scared, and that really wasn't good, not good at all.

Moran's jaw worked for a while as he tried to find the words, "Wednesday?" he echoed in a voice that quivered in anger. "I am running a criminal web and I don't even know things that happen _four days ago!"_

Peace nodded sharply, her eyes flicking to all the exits of the room then back to the livid face of her boss. Moran looked ready to kill someone and sure enough he reached under his desk and pulled out a gun, he lifted it and aimed at Peace.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" he demanded. Peace's eyes were wide but she stayed motionless, her mouth tight as she struggled to find an excuse. "That's why I keep you idiotic lot around isn't it? To keep tags on people?

"No one's been checking the blog, sir," she told him, her voice shaking slightly, "he hasn't written anything for months,"

"What did it say Peace?" Moran asked, the gun never lowering, "If it's on the news it had to contain something ground breaking,"

"Watson was pointing out the problems with Moriarty's plan, get them to realise that they had been played," Peace told him, "Its working,"

Moran's shoulders slumped and he put the gun back on the table, he sat back in his seat and ran his hands down his face. Peace's body relaxed and she shared a look with Anthea; Anthea tried smiling reassuringly but the assassin just scowled in response.

"Well, I wanted it to be poetic," Moran said from where he sat, he was slouched now with both arms on the arm rest; a faint smile playing across his face. The two women's gazes snapped back to him, "And now it will be,"

"What do you mean?" Anthea asked with a frown, her pen stilling as it rested against her thumb.

"Watson's death," Moran smiled, "It will strike fear into the heart of this city, he knows too much and so he dies; it'll be a message, one that will stick with the population for years to come! Might even draw Holmes out of whatever hole he's crawled into,"

Anthea frowned, this man was more crazed than she thought, he was sounding like he was in some badly written action movie, not real life. It wouldn't 'strike fear into the heart of the city', people died all the time in London; people just got on with their lives and ignored it. Peace didn't seem to see this.

"I agree sir," Peace replied hastily. Moran laughed bitterly and raised his gun, Peace stiffened again as he clicked off the safety.

"No you don't, you'll do anything to stay in my good books," Moran smirked, "See the thing is, a lot of the missions over the past few days have been failing due to information leaks and it all seems to come back to you,"

"What are you saying?" Peace stuttered. Anthea watched as one of the figures of the hand Peace rested on her stomach touched something on her belt, Moran didn't notice, "I am loyal to you,"

Moran snorted, "How can you say that after the scene at the meeting the other day? You, my dear, are anything but loyal! Tell me, how long have you been an informant for Mycroft Holmes?" he demanded, then glanced down at her hand, she held what looked like the grip of a knife now, "And for god's sake put down the knife!"

She didn't, instead she slipped it out of its sheath and raised it; as if she meant to throw it. "Lower the gun first,"

"Bullets are faster than knives,"

"You willing to test that?"

Moran smirked and clicked the safety back on, Peace slipped the knife back into the hidden sheath at her waist but she kept her hand on the hilt; Anthea suddenly felt extremely venerable, she was totally unarmed and in a room with two killers, not exactly her idea of fun. Peace's scared act had fallen away now and she looked nothing short of blood thirsty, there was a smirk on her lips and her body was tense, ready to spring at any moment.

"So you _are_ a spy?" Moran smirked, glaring at her.

"Never said that," Peace replied, "Though I suppose I should. Not for Holmes though, might want to check for that spy again,"

"Doesn't matter who for, you're a dead woman Peace," Moran spat, "You've changed nothing; John Watson will die and there's nothing you can do to change that,"

"Well you are _sorely_ mistaken," Peace smirked.

Moran shot.

Anthea cried out as hot droplets of ruby red blood splattered her white blouse and burned her skin, the gun shot echoed in her head and made her ears ring. Moran had shot the woman through the head and a perfectly round hole decorated her forehead, she was still smirking, her cold eyes stared up at Anthea unseeing; one of her contacts had popped out, leaving the dull, brown iris of her left eye to be seen.

Anthea didn't know what to think or say, she just sat on her chair unmoving, her mouth agape, after a moment she realised she was shaking. Peace's blood was spreading across the blue carpet, staining it a reddish black, Moran was clicking the safety back on and fixing the gun back under the desk. He looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

"You're not in shock are you? Because if so you might end up being fired; you're gunna see that a lot," Moran smirked.

Anthea gave a shaking, hysterical laugh, "If you have a habit of killing your employees I might quit,"

Moran snorted, "Yes, well, before you do I want you to send a text. Also get someone to clean this mess up; I do hate it when the brains end up drying into the carpet."

"What do you want the text to say?" she asked, trying to forget the nonchalant way he had said the last bit.

"John Watson dies tonight, send it to everyone," Moran told her, as he crossed over to a cupboard on the other side of the room and took out a sniper rifle, he glanced over at her, his gaze lingering on the droplets of red on her blouse "Get a new top as well, you'll never get that stain out."

After Anthea had stopped the shaking in her hands she sent the text to all of Moran's employees and one other person. She put the phone back in her pocket feeling as if she had just signed her death certificate; she would have to get out of there today, Anthea had just watched one spy die and she had no intention of becoming the second.

Sherlock swept his eyes down John's wall, there were four days left until Moran would make his move and he had to be ready. This couldn't be like the fall, there had been too many loose ends, and John had proved that they were too easy to connect together and work it out, this had to be tight; no one could know where John went, Moran's men couldn't be allowed to track him.

Sherlock had debated getting Mycroft to take John into a protection scheme now, keep him safe, but that left time for Moran to track him down. But by getting him out during the thick of it they had the cover of confusion; everything would be happening quickly, there would be less time to track the army doctor.

Sherlock heard the sound of an expensive car pulling up outside the house and he crossed to the window. Through the grimy, single pane of glass he watched as his brother got out of the car, Mycroft began to jog through the heavy rain towards the door. Sherlock's blood ran cold: jogging _and_no umbrella? Something was very wrong.

Sherlock turned on his heels and grabbed his orange hoddie from the mattress in the corner; he pulled it on with fumbling figures and hurried out of the room.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said in between ragged breaths, "You have to come now it's-"

"What's happened to him, is he alright?" Sherlock demanded, pushing past his brother and out of the door towards the car. Mycroft followed him, stepping back out into the rain.

"Nothing yet, Anthea sent me this," he replied, giving Sherlock his mobile.

_Moran's ordered his men to kill John tonight, you better get going if you want to save him- A_

Sherlock's eye met his brother and he thrust the phone back at him, "I need to get to him,"

Mycroft handed him a GPS, "I know, here; it's showing his position,"

"Get in the car, we need to go,"

Once they were in the car Mycroft took the GPS and read the address out to the driver, he handed it back and said, "When we arrive your job is going to be getting John out of there so the snipers can do their job, alright?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to glare, he didn't like taking orders from his brother, but right now this was going to save John's life, "Fine,"

Mycroft gave him a hard stare, "I mean it Sherlock, don't try anything. Just get him out and take him back to the house,"

"What about Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, they may not be targets now, but they will be eventually," Sherlock asked as he stared out the window. He didn't want his brother to know just how nervous he really was, that meant as little eye contact as possible.

"They've been escorted to a safe location," Mycroft replied. Sherlock felt Mycroft looking at him but he still didn't turn to look at him, his brother sighed slightly, "Sherlock, it's going to be okay,"

Sherlock's head snapped to face him, a poisonous glare on his face, "I don't need your reassurances Mycroft,"

"And yet I will give them, Sherly," Mycroft added softly.

The two brothers stared at each other for a few moments, Sherlock sighed slightly and turned to face the window; if Mycroft thought a single childhood nickname was going to get him to open up and spill all his inner thoughts, he was mistaken.

"We're almost there." Mycroft said after a long few minutes of silence.

"I know,"

Mycroft sighed, "Don't get hurt, please,"

"Look, Mycroft, please stop with the caring, I thought it wasn't an advantage," Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft didn't say anything until the car stopped a street over from where John was. As Sherlock got out of the car Mycroft reached over and grabbed his brothers arm, making him face him, "Good luck, don't do anything stupid,"

Sherlock nodded briefly and closed the door, the car pulled away and he watched for a moment. Sherlock took a deep breath in and started to run.


End file.
